


Once Upon A Time

by Dizzojay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-10
Updated: 2013-10-10
Packaged: 2017-12-29 01:05:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 31,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/999039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dizzojay/pseuds/Dizzojay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two brothers, a dangerous quest, a beautiful princess, a magnificent black mare with a give 'em hell attitude, and just about every fairytale cliché you can possibly imagine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written with profound apologies to Bobby Singer for what I am about to do to him!

Her golden hair billowed out behind her like a silken veil as she cautiously approached him. Emerging from intense blackness, her beautiful face, as pale and delicate as ivory, wore an expression of unbearable heartbreak and dread.

"Help me, noble prince," she pleaded quietly, reaching out to him with a slender hand half hidden by a voluminous sleeve of sea green brocade.

Her eyes of topaz-blue shone with unshed tears as she walked toward him, straight-backed and dignified despite her distress. Her bare feet, barely visible under her flowing gown, moved silently over the featureless ground.

"Please good sir, I beg you; help me."

He reached out to her outstretched hand, silently reassuring her, beckoning her toward him; desperate to grasp her hand and pull her into his protective embrace.

"Help me, please – help …" her desperate voice faded into silence as the blackness engulfed her and he found himself staring at nothing but a dark void.

xxxxx

Sam heard a gasping grunt as, behind him, Dean woke abruptly. He rolled over to face his brother who was sitting bolt upright in the room's other bed, panting harshly and staring wide-eyed across the moonlit room.

"Bad dream, bro?" Sam mumbled, his voice still thick with sleep.

Dean regarded him silently. For a moment, only the sound of Dean's rapid breathing could be heard. Eventually, he seemed to calm, and gave a nod. Swallowing noisily, he followed it up with a shake of the head.

"Don' know," he croaked, reaching round for the glass of water on his nightstand.

"Well was it or wasn't it?" prompted Sam.

"Not a nightmare," Dean replied hesitantly, rubbing the back of his neck; "I jus' keep seeing this woman. She's calling for help, she's frightened of something."

"Woman?" Sam repeated, "someone we know?"

Dean swallowed another sip of water and shook his head. "Nah, don' know who she is; she's not familiar, but real hot though," he seemed to drift into some kind of silent reflection. "She's blonde and young and slim but curvy the way a woman should be; got these real pretty blue eyes and awesome full lips and …."

Sam frowned, waving a hand in front of him; "yeah, I get the picture Dean."

"There's something else weird about her," Dean continued.

"What?"

"She's dressed kinda old-fashioned," Dean concluded.

Sam cocked his head curiously; "what? Like in the fifties or something?"

"No," Dean shook his head; "way older than that. She's got some long velvety green dress on with the big flowy sleeves, kinda like you see at the renaissance faires. Medieval, that's it; it looks medieval."

"yep, I'd say that's weird okay," Sam agreed with a nod.

Dean looked up at Sam for the first time since they had started to talk; "she's asking for help, Sam."

"What sort of help?"

"Don't know," Dean shrugged; "she just keeps asking me to help her. She's real scared, Sam, really, really frightened."

Taking a deep breath, Sam continued; "Dean, are you saying this is some kind of vision?"

Silhouetted against faint rays of hazy grey moonlight, Dean shrugged again; "no … yeah … I don't know. It can't be. I only see her at night when I'm asleep, it must be just a dream; a really weird, freaky, recurring dream."

"Recurring?"

Turning to Sam, Dean looked up at him and nodded; "yeah, I've seen her every night for about two weeks now."

"And has she always asked for help?"

"Yeah," Dean nodded again; "always."

"What's her name?" Sam asked absently.

"Don' know," Dean replied over a yawn, "never gotten close enough to make an introduction."

"Have you ever been able to help her?"

"No," Dean sighed; "It's like I'm seeing her through my own eyes and we're walking toward each other, but before I can reach her …" Dean's voice tailed off and he blinked rapidly, chewing his thumbnail.

"What?" Sam urged; before you can reach her, what then?"

"Nothing," Dean replied; "before I can reach her I always wake up."

"So, what d'y wanna do about it?" Sam asked quietly, aware that whatever this was, Dean seemed to be quite rattled by it.

"What can I do?" Dean sighed, "she's just some random chick in my dreams."

Sam sat staring through the darkness as if deep in thought. "Well, yeah, but she's different from the usual chicks in your dreams," he added; "she's got clothes on for a start."

"you're not funny bitch," Dean huffed petulantly; "not even a little bit!"

Sam smiled; "but seriously, if this is bothering you, and you're not sleeping; we should try to do something about it."

"Although," Dean shot a sideways glance at Sam with a wicked grin on his face; "your hair's funny, I'll give you that."

Sam ignored Dean on the basis that it was probably best not to encourage him, and tried to continue. "Our experience …"

"And when you do that bitchface thing that looks like you're suckin' a lemon, that's pretty funny too." Dean was clearly on a roll; a very annoying, typically Dean-trying-to-pretend-everything's-peachy roll.

Sam sighed; "Dean, d'y want my help or not?"

"Oh c'mon then bitch, what'ya got?" Dean's grin widened.

"Well, our experience has taught us that we shouldn't take weird dreams for granted," Sam began with an exaggerated eye-roll; "why don't you keep a notebook by your bed and write down what you've seen as soon as you wake up." He paused in thought for a moment; "that way we can see if there's any pattern to these dreams, or clues or if anything in them changes?"

Dean's grin faded.

"How can you be such a friggin' geek at two o'clock in the morning?" He snorted.

"Go back to sleep jerk;" now it was Sam's turn to grin as he knew Dean had accepted his suggestion.

Dean grunted something unintelligible then subsided back down onto his mattress, rolling onto his side and throwing the crumpled grey mass of the quilt back over his shoulder.

Laying back, Sam stared at the ceiling and thought of pretty medieval ladies. It wasn't long before his brother's soft snores drifted across the room, lulling him to his own rest.

xxxxx

tbc


	2. Chapter 2

More than a week passed since that initial exchange, and a trio of mundane hunts in equally mundane Midwestern towns had kept the brothers occupied. A fourth potential hunt; another fairly run-of-the-mill haunting had brought them to another small, dull backwater, so unremarkable that neither Winchester could even trouble to remember its name. As boring as the town was, however, Sam's research had revealed that the spirit only seemed to manifest on a Friday, and so they decided to make the most of having a couple of days to kill, and take the opportunity to enjoy some rest and relaxation.

During that time, Dean had seemed unusually preoccupied; brooding and uncharacteristically quiet. Sam wasn't deluded enough to think that their recent hunts were anywhere near diverting enough to capture his brother's limited attention span; and felt secure in the assumption that it was Dean's mysterious nocturnal visitor that was filling his brother's thoughts.

It was one hazy morning following a brief visit to the little town's sparse array of shops that Sam returned to the room to hear the hiss of running water and an echoing rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody with the added novelty of having absolutely no tune whatsoever. Safely concluding that Dean was showering, Sam dropped his purchases on the kitchen table and chanced a brief look in the notebook that Dean had been dutifully keeping beside his bed as per Sam's suggestion.

He reflected that Dean had certainly taken his suggestion to heart as he scanned the hastily scribbled notes:

'Green dress – a nice green like the colour of grass or leaves.'

'Really long blonde hair.'

'Light green ribbons in her hair today.'

'Help me please – she said this three times to me.'

'Bare feet. Her feet are dirty.'

'I asked her name but she didn't say.'

'All dark around us, couldn't see anything else apart from her. Never any light.'

'Much darker green dress today, thick material with fancy sewed patterns all over it.'

'She called me noble prince again. She asked for help again twice. I asked her name again. I think she was going to tell me but then I woke up.'

'Her hair is tied back in a really long braid today.'

'She's wearing a dress the colour of red wine today, rack looks awesome in this dress.'

'Her hair is still in a braid – black ribbon in her hair today. Not as nice as the green one.'

'It's still dark all around us, I thought she was going to cry today, but she didn't. I really want to help her - I told her so but I don't think she can hear me.'

'I called out to her today but woke up as soon as I did.'

As he stood studying the notebook, Sam patently failed to hear the creak of the bathroom door opening behind him.

"It takes a while to get going," Dean's voice huffed indignantly; "but it's sad at the end y'know …"

xxxxx

Dropping the notebook back on the nightstand, Sam turned to see his freshly showered brother standing behind him, arms folded, leaning on the doorframe. Clad only in a blue, motel towel which, wrapped around his waist, reached halfway down his shins; and with his face and chest flushed a healthy, glowing pink from the heat of the water, Dean glared at him from under a shock of shower-damp hair.

"Sorry dude, I was just curious," Sam mumbled sheepishly, deliberately walking away from the nightstand; "still getting the dreams then?"

Dean rolled his eyes, and tugged at the towel to tighten it before approaching the kitchen counter to pour a coffee. He eyed the stuffed plastic bag that Sam had deposited on the table earlier. "What's in the bag?" he asked, cocking his head toward the kitchen table and changing the subject seamlessly.

Sam sidled round him, and rummaged in the bag, pulling out a pile of dog-eared books. "I saw an antiquarian bookshop as we were driving through town yesterday," Sam explained; "I noticed it was closing down and the stock was going real cheap, so I thought these night be handy to have around."

He dropped into a chair and started sifting through his purchases; a clutch of books on various subjects ranging from the occult and the paranormal to cryptozoology and symbology.

"Great," Dean grunted; "more crap to cart around in the Impala."

"They might save us a couple of trips to the library," Sam replied with a shrug, thumbing through a mildew-stained book about lycanthropy lore.

"... save YOU a couple of trips to the library," Dean snorted and headed back toward the bathroom.

His progress stalled when he heard Sam's puzzled voice behind him.

"What the …?"

Spinning round, Dean rapidly clutched his towel which seemed to be intent on making a break for freedom, and turned back to Sam, who was still sitting at the table, his face frozen into a quizzical frown.

"I didn't pick this one," Sam muttered, staring at the book he held in his hand; "the server must have put it in my pile by mistake."

He held the book up for Dean to see.

xxxxx

Entitled 'Once Upon a Time,' its creased and faded cover was embellished with a scene straight out of Arthurian legend. A noble and gloriously handsome knight, bearing armour of gleaming bronze, knelt before a beautiful princess who stood before him smiling a gentle and dignified smile; a vision of radiance in a gown of gold brocade and ivory silk. Close by his side, his magnificent black steed, clad in a caparison of blue and gold, champed impossibly green grass. The whole scene was backlit by a diamond bright sun whose light and warmth seemed to be reserved entirely for these three figures.

"It looks like a kids book," Sam mused, grinning wickedly as he added; "hey Dean, this might be right up your street."

He was expecting a smartass comment as Dean leaned idly over him, glancing at the book's colourful cover with a sigh, but what he wasn't expecting was for Dean's jaw to drop, eyes stretching saucer wide as his mug slipped limply through his fingers, dropping onto the floor and splashing dregs of cold coffee across the carpet.

"Dean?"

Dean's mouth moved silently, goldfish-like for a moment, before he seemed to regain some sense and snatched the book out of Sam's hand staring intently at the picture.

"Dean?" Sam repeated, louder this time; "what the hell is going on?"

Looking up over the book at his brother, Dean's face had drained of its warm pink flush, turning ashen. He gaped at Sam, wearing an expression that would have perfectly fitted the phrase 'looking like he'd seen a ghost' except for the fact that when Dean saw a ghost he usually looked excited and ever-so-slightly psychotic.

"Sam," he mumbled absently, "this – this picture ..."

Sam nodded, "yeah, what about it?"

"The girl in this picture," he pointed to the willowy beauty, a vision of loveliness in her golden gown, her flaxen hair tumbling over her shoulders like spun silk.

"Dude," Dean stammered; "this princess," he blinked hard and Sam could see the hand that held the book trembling.

"She's the woman from my dreams."

xxxxx

tbc


	3. Chapter 3

Dean began to leaf furiously through the book. Without a doubt, it was, as Sam had originally speculated, a childrens' book. A simplistically told tale of a beautiful princess languishing in the evil clutches of an unseen monster.

It was a tale of rollicking adventure; the kind of book that could well have entertained Dean in his formative reading years long before he discovered the delights of Musclecar Weekly and Busty Asian Beauties. The heavily illustrated story revolved around a nameless hero; a bold and handsome knight with glittering armour and the sort of lantern-jawed smile that Dean longed to punch, and his faithful squire wending their way through a strange fairtytale landscape, selflessly facing mortal danger and terrifing hardship at every turn in their quest to rescue the damsel in distress.

Dean's mind whirled as he flicked through the brightly coloured pages, but it ground to a stuttering halt as he turned over the last few pages to see that they were blank, effectively leaving the story incomplete.

He whipped the pages over, scanning the blank sheets as if he were willing words to pop out of them, then whipped them back again, before slamming the book shut in exasperation.

"Well, that's freakin' weird," he huffed, rubbing his brow and passing the book back to Sam; "we need to find out where this book's come from."

"And how the story ends," Sam added, not even trying to hide the tone of alarm in his voice.

Now it was Sam's turn to leaf through the book; "this is ... just ... well, weird," Sam observed helplessly, examining the blank pages.

"I already said that," Dean snorted.

Sam looked up over the book at his brother under an ironically raised brow; "well if you can think of a better word dude, you go right ahead!"

"I mean, apart from the fact that this random book turned up in my shopping," Sam continued; "and appears to be about a girl in terrible danger who's been haunting your dreams for the last month, it doesn't even have any information to prove that it even exists – there's no publishing date, or details of a publishing house or even an ISBN number."

Dean looked up at him with his classic, 'Sammy you've switched into 'geek' mode – what the hell are you talking about?' face.

"A what number?"

"An ISBN number," Sam explained; "International standard book number, it's a number that's assigned to every book before publication, to record details like the book's author, it's language, and publishing date. This book hasn't got one which technically means it's never been published."

Dean stared at him for moment, then turned back to the table, hoicking his towel up again; "dude, I don't even wanna know how you remember crap like that," he snorted.

Unconcerned by Dean's apparent lack of enthusiasm for his well of knowledge, Sam carried on examining the book trying to shed a glimmer of light on its origins. He was on the verge of giving up and heading back to the old bookstore when his perseverence finally paid off.

"Dean, look."

Pointing to one of the blank pages at the back of the book, Sam handed it back to Dean. It was hard to see, but there was definitely a faint watermark pressed into the page. Flicking through the book, Dean could see that it was on all the pages, but not necessarily visible under the print.

Holding it up to the light, it read; 1,001, Gwendoline Oak ...

Dean looked up to see that Sam was already on his laptop.

"1,001, Gwendoline Oak? it sounds like part of an address," Sam muttered, scanning his search engine; "there's a Gwendoline Street in a town called Oakswood, about 100 miles east of here," he added; "it's the most likely one I can find."

Dean snatched up the book.

"'Kay, let's go," he marched over to the door, forcefully yanking it open.

"Dean?"

"What?" Dean snapped: "this poor woman's in trouble; c'mon dude, shake a leg!"

Sam sighed. "Are you gonna put some clothes on first?"

Looking down, Dean realised that he was standing in the wide open doorway of their motel room, with nothing but a towel to spare his blushes, and giving a busload of senior citizens parked up on the kerbside behind the parking lot a view that was probably not good for their blood pressure.

"Ahem," he spluttered, flushing puce as he manhandled the door closed behind him; "gimme a sec."

Sam watched his brother dash into the bathroom and shook his head in exasperation.

xxxxx

Gwendoline Street, Oakswood was a long, smart road on a steep hill. By the time the Winchesters had made it to the 900's they were both hot, cranky and exhausted.

The early afternoon sun bore down on them as they trudged up the handsome, well appointed street. It occasionally disappeared behind fat, white clouds that rode the summer breezes across the sky, and then reappeared in all its eye-wateringly bright glory as if it were playing hide and seek.

But neither Winchester was paying any attention to the sun; their attention was fixed entirely on the highly desirable residences that lined Gwendoline Street. "983 … 985 … 987 …" Dean chanted under his laboured breath as he stomped past the buildings.

They both stumbled to a halt at the end of the street, and stood, looking around themselves in confusion. The end of the street where they stood gave way to a well maintained grass verge, then beyond that, there was nothing but an expanse of dense, wild woodland.

Dean looked at the large, ivy-bedecked house on his left; "999," he muttered; "what the hell?"

Glancing down at the crumpled piece of paper in his hand, Sam read the address that he'd hastily scribbled on it while Dean was getting dressed. He looked up at the forest before them.

On the other side of the road along with all the other even numbers, they could see the wide manicured lawn of number 1,000, but there the road clearly ended.

"It's definitely 1,001; it's got to be in the forest or out on the other side of it," Sam groaned, scratching his head.

Dean grunted in response, and stepped up onto the grass verge. "The hell kinda weirdo lives in a forest?" he grumbled, pausing as his stomach gurgled loudly. "I tell you Sam, if we come across a gingerbread cottage, I'm so friggin' eating it!"

xxxxx

Two hours passed, and the Winchesters had nothing show for their interminable trek through the forest except a multitude of bug bites.

Sam was on the verge of giving up and suggesting to Dean they head back to the motel and try to research this address a little more, when something in his peripheral vision captured his dwindling attention.

It was a building; definitely a building.

He could hear Dean behind him kicking his way through the deadfall littering the forest floor chuntering sourly about being famished, being hot, being sweaty and having a bitch of a bug bite in his armpit.

"Hey Dean," Sam called, waiting patiently for Dean to glance up from his grumpy internal monologue.

"What?" he grunted ingraciously.

Sam beckoned him over, and Dean duly obliged after treating Sam to an exaggerated eye-roll.

xxxxx

"So what you've found," Dean snorted, hands thrust in his pockets as he glared at Sam's discovery with thinly-disguised contempt, "is a shed."

"Yep," Sam replied, Dean's ingratitude drifting over him like mist over a lake as he glanced through the window of said 'shed' which sat in a small clearing admist a dense copse of oaks;.

The shed was clearly abandoned, and had been for some time. Forlorn and practically derelict, its listing wooden walls and sagging roof were warped and ragged with decades of exposure.

The brothers both agreed it must have been some kind of woodsmans' cottage, and as Sam stood back examining the whole structure, Dean peered intently through the window, his nose pressed hard against the cracked, grime-coated glass. He could see wooden shelves, and a bench with tools scattered about it, discarded exactly where their former owner had left them the last time this place was used. A film of dust and cobwebs coated everything inside the shed, adding a grey patina to the feeling of lifelessness and desolation that pervaded the small building.

"I'm tellin' you man," Dean huffed, tearing his face away from the glass and turning to Sam; "I don't know squat about carpentry or forestry or whatever the hell it was this dude used to do, but I do know good tools when I see them. An' these are good tools."

Sam nodded in agreement as he walked back toward Dean, trying to stifle the smirk that threatened to break out at the sight of the black smudge of window grime adorning the tip of his brother's nose.

"I mean they're neglected an' rusty an' crap, but man, these are the real deal," Dean continued, clearly genuinely impressed; "an' old too. D'you know, I'd bet that some of this stuff is over a hundred years old."

Sam took a cursory glance through the window and saw instantly what Dean was talking about. The tools were heavy and solid, roughly hewn, so probably hand-made. They were the sort of tools used by craftsmen, not workmen.

"They must be worth a fortune," Sam observed.

"Yeah," Dean agreed enthusiastically; "which begs the questions, why'd someone just leave 'em lying around out here, and secondly, why has no-one else seen them and helped themselves?"

The Winchesters stood side-by-side and scanned the shed's shadowy interior. There was a rail running the length of the ceiling with various items of equipment hanging from it, clearly visible through the window; a scarily long hacksaw blade , a loop of leather harnessing that looked like it might have belonged on a horse, a massive rust-scarred gearing disc from a lathe or some other sort of turning mechanism and a long-handled axe.

As they stood peering through the window, both brothers felt the warmth of the sun on their backs as it appeared from one of its brief interludes behind the tumbling clouds again.

Its sudden light flooded through the shed's little window, illuminating the dusty interior and casting the shadow of the four hanging items.

"Holy … crap!" The Winchesters turned to each other, their eyes widened in awe.

The shadows of one long upright, two circles and another long upright projected '1001' neatly onto the back wall of the shed.

xxxxx

It took less than a minute for the brothers to decide that they needed to be inside this shed.

They scurried round the front of the building, and Sam dropped to his knees at the door, rummaging in his pocket for his picklock. He had just begun the painstaking process of picking the door's rust-clogged lock when Hurricane Dean, tired of waiting, decided to take matters into his own hands simply kicked the door down, almost taking Sam's head with it.

Sam leapt to his feet, bristling with shock and indignation, and all but ready to tear his asshole brother a new one, when the words died in his throat, his picklock dropping from limp fingers.

The two stunned figures stared in silent amazement through the shattered door.

"D'y remember this morning when we both said this thing was weird," Dean mumbled, without tearing his eyes away from the shed's interior.

Sam nodded mutely.

"Dude, we DEFINITELY need a better word …"

xxxxx

tbc


	4. Chapter 4

Peering through the shed's shattered doorway, the brothers could see, not the dust-coated workbench and discarded tools that they had previously been looking at, but into a small town; more specifically, its market square.

Dean blinked. He glanced across at Sam and then blinked again.

The exercise didn't change anything; they were still looking at a market square.

It wasn't just any old market square; it was clearly a very ancient one. The muddy ground was uneven and well-trodden, coated with the detritus of life; straw and horse dung in particular, along with a few stray cabbage leaves which lay abandoned between the cobbles, gently composting away to themselves.

In the centre of the square stood an old well; a plush coat of greying moss clinging to its decaying, slightly crooked stonework. It seemed strangely forlorn standing beside an equally decrepit horse trough. The faint creak of the bucket which swayed gently in the breeze as it hung from the well's sagging wooden canopy only adding to the sense of deslolation that pervaded this strange place.

"Where is everyone?" Sam whispered absently, not sure whether Dean was listening or not.

A haphazard jumble of wattle and daub buildings formed the boundaries of the market square. Both brothers could see that some were simple dwellings but that others, from the faded signs hanging about them were stores: a cobbler, a greengrocer, a tailor and a lorimer among them.

Whatever they were, there was one thing they all had in common. They were all closed up, dark and silent; brooding in the palpable despair that smothered this place.

The bucket creaked softly in the breeze again.

"This is ..." Sam began.

"Don't say it!" Dean snapped.

They both turned on hearing a harsh snort, and saw that the only sign of life in the square appeared to be a stray cow, previously unnoticed by them. The great dun beast stood motionless except for the rhythmic grinding of her jaw as she calmly ruminated, staring back at them from under long coarse lashes.

Tossing her head, she registered her opinion of the mysterious interlopers by letting loose a clarion blast of a fart.

Dean wrinkled his nose in disgust; "I don't think much of your date," he snorted, goading Sam with a grin, expertly calculated to be as annoying as possible; "I'd much rather go and find mine."

xxxxx

Turning around, Dean glanced back into the forest behind him and took a deep breath before he tentatively stepped forward into the strange old world.

Sam reached out to grab the back of his jacket in an attempt to stop him; "hey, what d'y think you're doing?"

"I'm takin' action, that's what I'm doin'," Dean countered, shaking himself free of Sam's grip.

"But Dean," now it was Sam's turn to glance round furtively into the forest behind them; "you've no idea what's through here."

"Yeah, I do," Dean replied firmly; "a woman who needs our help, that's what's through here."

Now standing fully in the mysterious cobbled square, Dean took a moment to scan his surroundings. As he did, he looked back through the weathered doorway that framed Sam's concerned face, all hint of humour erased from his expression; "so are you comin' with me or am I doing this solo?"

Sam hesitated as he mulled over Dean's words, then wilted, sighing quietly. He knew Dean was right, and worse still, Dean was determined; so this hunt, quest, job, whatever the hell it was, was happening one way or the other, whether Sam approved or not.

Scraping a clammy hand through his hair, Sam stepped over the threshold.

xxxxx

Standing in the square, Sam scanned his surroundings just as Dean had done a moment ago, and allowed the soft breeze to disturb his hair. His first awareness was of the smell of the place; a smell of brutal reality carried on the air. Heavy and earthen, it was the smell of mud and dung and decay.

It was a smell that didn't instill him with great optimism.

Behind them they heard a shuffle as the cow began to wander away. Clearly unimpressed by her visitors, she quietly disregarded them; her attention instead transferring to the withered shrub she had just uprooted.

Looking back over Dean's shoulder, Sam could see the doorway that they had just stepped through. Unsurprisingly, it seemed to be the entrance to some kind of workshop. Inside, he could see a workbench, and various tools, very similar to those they had been admiring in the old shed. He also realised that if he could see the interior of the building they had just stepped out of, that meant he could no longer see the forest that they had just emerged from; the forest that marked their way back to their world and their lives. He mentally added that small fact to his 'things to freak out about if we don't find a few answers soon' list.

"Okay, lets go," he sighed.

"Go where?" Dean responded.

Sam shrugged; "no idea," he glanced around the forlorn little marketplace again; "it's not like there's even anyone around we could ask," he muttered to himself; "hey Dean, perhaps we should try to find out where everyone is before ..."

His words trailed into nothing as he realised Dean wasn't listening to a word he was saying, and seemed far more occupied by other matters.

xxxxx

Sam looked up to see Dean frantically waving his arms in front of his face.

"Freakin' bugs," Dean snarled, lashing out at some unseen flying menace; "why can't they leave me the hell alone? Haven't the little sonsofbitches taken enough friggin' bites out of me today?"

Sam could hear it, a buzzing sound, but not the faint, energetic hum of a wasp or bluebottle; this was guttural, far more substantial. The deep, echoing thrum sounded more like something that required a pilot than anything of insect origin.

Dean stumbled backward over a loose cobble as whatever the thing was buzzed past his head close enough to ruffle the spiky hair at his crown.

"freakin' flying douchebag," he roared, arms flailing wildly over his head like he was sending some kind of demented death threat in semaphore. "I'm not getting any more goddamn bug bites!"

Sam ducked as it flew back toward him. He felt the draft of its presence on his face, and this time he could see it; a blinding bright aura of light, that seemed vaguely human in shape, although no bigger than a newborn baby. He recoiled in pain as its powerful rasping buzz filled his ears to bursting.

A frantic dance ensued as both Winchesters dodged and feinted, trying to get away from the glowing being which was either the biggest friggin' bug in the history of, like, ever or something far - well - weirder. It swooped and soared around them, blinding them with crystal bright glowing energy and outsmarting their every dodge, without ever actually making physical contact.

Eventually it stopped. Suddenly it was nothing more than a gently bobbing ball of light hanging in the air between the two panting, rubber-legged figures, its harsh drone softened to a hum.

They watched it suspiciously, hearts pounding as wary anticipation crackled through them, fearful of what it might do next.

Thankfully, they didn't have long to wait as it suddenly addressed them.

"Do you two idjits want my friggin' help or not?"

xxxxx

tbc


	5. Chapter 5

The brothers stood, gaping gormlessly at the source of the voice, their jaws dropping and eyes widening to the degree that they could count themselves fortunate there weren't four eyeballs rolling around on the floor.

"B-Bobby?" Dean gasped.

Sam stared, open-mouthed; a narrow thread of drool hanging off his lip as he stood frozen, seemingly without the power of coherent speech.

The face that stared back at them was indeed Bobby's. What captured the Winchesters' attention in no small part, however, was not so much that 'Bobby's' entire body was no more than eighteen inches high, nor the fact that he was hovering in mid-air at approximately the level of their faces apparently by the power of two rapidly beating butterfly wings. What really blew the brothers brains into la-la land was the fact that this particular version of Bobby was without his faithful baseball cap, and was instead sporting a very dinky tiara fashioned from spider silk and dewdrops together with a pretty pink gown woven from primrose petals.

He glared back at them, his tiny stubby hands planted firmly on his hips.

"What?" he snorted.

Dean blinked hard, in the vain hope that the image which was now branded into his retinas for all eternity might go away; but when he opened his eyes, the wee figure was still there, hovering steadily before him, a thunderous frown on it's tiny face.

"Bobby, what the hell?" Sam stammered, finally managing to find his tongue.

"Okay, idjits, first off, I'm not Bobby," came the reply. The words were Bobby's but there was a distinct musical quality like tinkling raindrops to the voice which was about as unlike Bobby's gruff tones as it was possible to be.

"Not Bobby?" Dean replied, brow furrowed in confusion.

"Not Bobby?" Sam parroted blankly.

"I'm a faerie," the little Not-Bobby explained over a heavy sigh, "I'm a faerie guardian to be precise."

Giving an exaggerated eye-roll when no meaningful response was forthcoming, Not-Bobby continued regardless. "faerie guardians look after people who deserve looking after. Our purpose in life is to protect the stout of heart and pure of spirit during hard times or especially during a dangerous quest."

"Okaaaaay …" Dean muttered.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but you two numbskulls are thinking about embarking on a dangerous quest?"

"Uh, I guess so," Sam nodded, his face suddenly brightening; "so you're kinda like our fairy godmother?"

The little figure snorted irritably, gifting the brothers with a reluctant nod; "well, yeah if you like; that's what your culture have come to know us folk as."

"So … why the hell d'y look like Bobby?" Dean asked hesitantly, trying his damndest to unsee the little nobbly legs protruding from under the fluttering pink skirt.

"Us faerie guardians, we got the power to look into our wards' hearts and change our appearance to take on the looks and personality of someone they love and trust; you know, to give them a bit of extra support and reassurance," Not-Bobby explained impatiently, glancing down at his little barrel chest and hairy forearms in obvious disapproval. "Of course, seein' as I'm really a girl faerie, your loved-one couldn't be someone pretty an' young who looks a bit more, well, faerie-like; I could never be that friggin' lucky!"

"Neither could I," snorted Dean under his breath.

"But what's with the dress?" Sam pleaded, gesticulating wildly; "Bobby doesn't wear a dress!"

"Well, not that we know of," Dean whispered queasily.

"I'm a friggin' faerie," snapped Not-Bobby indignantly; "it's what we wear - what, would you rather I went around naked?"

"No … God, NO!" The panic-stricken response was delivered in stereo.

Not-Bobby buzzed toward Dean's face until he was so close, Dean's eyes crossed sharply in order to see him; "right, so are we doin' this or not?"

Dean hesitantly backed away from the grumpy little face hovering in front of him and looked across to Sam for moral support.

"I don't know," muttered Sam; "are we?"

Not-Bobby grimaced in frustration and folded his stocky little bare arms across his shimmering, pink bodice.

xxxxx

"Well, you can start by telling us what's going on," Dean insisted as Not-Bobby bobbed and fluttered softly on the air currents between the brothers. "I've been getting strange dreams every night of some hot chick in danger, then we found a weird old book with her picture in and then we found some godforsaken old shack in the middle of nowhere and ended up here in downtown rathole central with nothing but a transvestite fairy godmother and a farting cow for company." His voice began to take on a vaguely demented edge, "I reckon we deserve an explanation!"

Not-Bobby turned to Sam with a sigh; "is he usually this flaky?"

Sam rolled his eyes; "you have no idea."

"Right, listen up;" the tiny being began; "you're here in the fair kingdom of Impalia."

Dean's ears pricked up wildly. "Impalia?" he repeated.

"Jeez, boy, you deaf or somethin'?" Not-Bobby snorted, " Impalia, that's what I said, ain't it?"

Dean grinned broadly; "Impalia – I don't freakin' believe it! This place is awesome!"

Sam frowned; "it was downtown rathole central two minutes ago."

"Shuddap and let Bobb … the faer .. uh,… him ... talk," Dean glared at Sam, then turned back to the tiny figure before him.

xxxxx

"This place, Impalia, is a kingdom dying of grief," Not-Bobby began solemnly; "it's ruled wisely and kindly by our King, good King Ulrich, but almost one year ago, his beloved daughter, the beautiful Princess Gwendoline was abducted by Ulrich's wicked step-brother, Grimwald.

"Okay," the brothers murmured; "with you so far."

"Grimwald, the king of the Bleaklands."

The brothers both shrugged, prompting Not-Bobby to continue; "Bleaklands?"

"You wanna see a rathole?" Bobby explained; "The Bleaklands is a miserable, barren country, dark and empty and downright freakin' evil. You can only reach it through the Wildwoods which, incidentally, is the only place worse than the Bleaklands. The Bleaklands is barely populated except for the kind of creatures that you go out of your way to avoid. Grimwald's holding Gwendoline in the dungeons of his castle there."

"Why would he do that?" Sam asked.

"Because Grimwald is a power-crazed tyrant who wants to rule somewhere better than the Bleaklands," replied the little faerie bitterly.

"Somewhere like Impalia?" Dean mused.

"Exactly like Impalia," Not-Bobby confirmed with a sad smile across his bearded face; "Grimwald wants to extend his reach and his power over all the peoples of this world."

"But, why would he take the girl?" Dean prompted.

"Grimwald gave King Ulrich exactly one year to relinquish his rule," Not-Bobby sighed; "he concocted some half-assed story about having more right than Ulrich to rule because of an old historical family feud. If Ulrich doesn't step down and hand over the throne, Grimwald has stated his intention to execute Gwendoline at sunset on the midsummer solstice – exactly one year from the day he took her."

"Midsummer solstice," Sam pondered; "that's only a week from now."

Not-Bobby nodded gravely.

"Why doesn't your King just hand over his kingdom to save his daughter?" Dean asked curiously.

"I said he's a wise and kindly man," came the sad reply; "and despite his love for his daughter and the awful situation she's in, he won't surrender his subjects, human and faerie, to the hands of a despotic monster."

The brothers exchanged nervous glances.

"As soon as Gwendoline was taken, Ulrich sent out a proclamation, asking for champions from all over the kingdom and beyond, to take up the challenge to rescue her but none survived the ordeals of the Wildwoods." Not-Bobby continued; "Ulrich even sent his own two sons, but they both perished in the attempt."

"That sucks," Dean mumbled softly.

"Now our poor king's wasting away, broken by the grief of losing two of his children and soon the third and only remaining one too," Not-Bobby sighed; "and his kingdom's dying with him." He gestured across the barren town; "A year ago this was a bustling, happy town, but the devastation of the last year has sucked the life and soul out of Impalia; a whole load of young men were lost in attempts to rescue the princess, and family businesses have been lost with them."

"This town is a ghost of better times."

xxxxx

"Okay," Dean sighed, scraping a hand over his face; "I get it; Grimwald is an asshole, but why have I been getting these dreams, and what's with the book?"

A faint smile crossed the little faerie's face; "good King Ulrich doesn't only take care of his human subjects; he respects his faerie subjects too; not all human kings can say that. He protects us and we love him for that. Grimwald only sees faeries as an infestation to be exterminated; if he came to the throne, our lives won't be worth squat."

"When it became clear that King Ulrich wasn't going to be able to find the solution to his problem, us faerie folk took matters into our own hands; see, there are things we can do that your people can't."

Dean raised an eyebrow quizzically.

"Your reputations as fighters and destroyers of evil is known well, and not only in your own world. We know that you're warriors, knights of the mighty realm of Winchester, and so we contacted you in the hope that you'd help us."

"So the dreams?" Dean asked; "that was you?"

Not-Bobby nodded. "Communicating across the veil between worlds ain't easy, and the message isn't always clear," he explained; "we sent the message to appear as dreams, in the hope that they might capture your interest, then our faerie scribes fashioned a book, an' one of our scouts was sent to place it in your path."

Sam rummaged in the poachers pocket inside his jacket and pulled the book out; "yeah, the book," he began; "what happened to it? It didn't have an ending."

Not-Bobby shrugged, stretching his wings as he did so; "Yeah, there was no ending in the book, 'cause there's no ending to this story."

"Yet," he added. "We're all hoping that you'll write the ending for us."

"And the shed?" Dean added.

"That point is where the veil between our two worlds is thinnest," Not-Bobby explained; "it was the only place we could bring you through safely."

He glanced testily between the two brothers, and bobbed up and down impatiently. Sam was sure that if the little figure had been wearing a watch, he would have glanced at it.

"We done here?" he prompted; "any more questions? 'Cause time ain't waiting for us."

"Yes," Dean replied curtly; "why me?" he asked, "why was it me getting the dreams? Sam didn't get anything."

There was a deep sigh. "Well, it's kinda awkward, but my people can only communicate across the veil with first born sons." He turned to Sam and smiled apologetically; "sorry kid, nothin' personal."

"s'okay," Sam shrugged in acceptance.

A brief pause settled between the three figures and Not-Bobby saw his opportunity to move the party along. "The journey'll be real dangerous. Only the strongest and bravest and most cunning knights will have a hope of crossing the Wildwoods to the Bleaklands. Then even if you reach the castle, Grimwald is a monster of a man; cruelty and bitterness are second nature to him.

"A douchebag in other words," snorted Dean.

Sam and the little faerie both smiled, nodding in agreement.

Another thoughtful silence settled between the three figures, broken only by the distant trump of the cow as she meandered lazily on the edges of the square.

"So," Not-Bobby glanced hopefully between the brothers; "will ya help us?"

The brothers glanced at each other, the unspoken agreement between them almost instantaneous.

"Yeah, grinned Dean; If I'm a mighty Knight of the realm of Winchester, then I need to go and rescue me a damsel in distress!"

xxxxx

tbc


	6. Chapter 6

Not-Bobby hovered between the brothers, arms folded as he looked them up and down, a distinctly unimpressed expression darkening his face.

"Well, this might be what knights wear back in your world, but it won't do here," he snorted; "you're gonna need to blend in with any locals we meet, and you're never going to do that dressed like …" the little faerie fished hesitantly for an appropriate word; "… like, THAT!" He waved his hand dismissively in the brothers' direction.

"What's wrong with the way we're dressed? Dean snapped indignantly, fingers plucking at his dark green overshirt; "this is freakin' new!"

Sam stood beside him watching the exchange in curious silence as if he was quite used to and accepting of his dress sense being criticised.

Not-Bobby swooped low, and rapidly circled around Dean, his eyes fixed on the older Winchester. Flushing self-consciously under the scrutiny, Dean gyrated and twisted, trying to follow the faerie's swift and unpredictable movements.

"Quit squirmin' boy," Not-Bobby snapped; "how the hell am I supposed to measure you up if you don't keep still?"

Dean hesitated; "measure?"

"Well yeah …" Not-Bobby replied impatiently; "what? You think armour is shrink-to-fit?"

Dean frowned, glancing across at Sam who was doing a poor job of hiding his amusement; "kiss it, bitch," he snorted.

He turned back to the faerie. "Well … okay," he muttered cautiously; "but you stay the hell away from my inside leg, I can tell you what that is myself!"

Not-Bobby rolled his tiny eyes; "don't flatter yerself princess." As if to prove a point, he shot between Dean's bowed legs, grinning as Dean jerked violently upward with a high pitched squeak.

Turning round, he waved his hand airily, ignoring the death glare Dean sent in his direction; "okay, le'ssee what we can do ..."

Dean gasped. suddenly feeling his clothes fluttering around him. A soft glow engulfed him as the feeling intensified, and he felt almost as if his own clothes were trying to lift him off the ground. All at once, he wasn't in control of his own body as an unseen force, roaring and whooshing like the eye of a storm, lifted his arms above his head, and he closed his eyes against the glow which turned into a blinding glare.

Eventually, the noise faded and both his feet were planted firmly on the ground again. After a moment, he dared to open his eyes.

Looking down at himself he let out another gasp as he saw, not the crumpled green overshirt and faded black T shirt he had been wearing only a moment ago, but a gleaming silver breastplate. Leather straps over his shoulders and across his sides fastened it to a matching backplate over a thickly padded black gambeson. Long and heavy, the gambeson reached halfway down his thighs over black leather breeches which were clamped tight around his lower legs by metal greaves.

A long, heavy sword hung in a scabbard from a thick leather belt slung low around his hips, and the whole outfit was finished by heavy boots, a long black fur trimmed cloak and black velvet gauntlets.

"Coooool," Dean grinned as he twirled and postured, inspecting himself with obvious approval.

He glanced up at Sam whose face hovered somewhere between admiration and amusement. "Hey, D'Artagnan," he grinned, ignoring the velvet-clad finger that Dean elevated in his direction.

xxxxx

"Now," Not-Bobby mused, rubbing his beard in thought; "a knight needs a horse."

Dean glanced at Sam, then back to the faerie; "a horse ... right," he scratched his head; "I don't know to ride a freakin' horse."

Not-Bobby flew past him, tiny hand smacking him upside the head surprisingly hard as he went; "well, ya better damnedwell learn quick, idjit!" Both brothers watched perplexed as he fluttered across the square toward the lonely cow, and after a brief pause, he turned and weaved his way back toward them with the cow lumbering slowly after him.

He stopped beside the baffled brothers and did that little airy-fairy wave of his arm again.

The unsuspecting cow let out a shocked moo as she was suddenly bathed in vivid, blinding light. The Winchesters recoiled, shielding their eyes, and through the glare they could just see the great dun bulk undulating and stretching, morphing into something very different.

When the light faded, they wiped their watering eyes to see, standing in place of the unfortunate cow, a magnificent black mare. Tall and proud, she stood, carrying her midnight-black tail like a silken banner, her coat glistening over a solid, sculpted body like liquid jet. Her arched neck was crested by a long lustrous mane which tumbled across her forehead and shoulder.

She carried an ornate, fur-lined saddle on her strong, straight back and there was a fire in her eyes that made Dean feel four inches tall when she turned and stared down at him, with a ferocious snort.

Dean stared at the horse as if he was facing his doom, and had a brief sinking feeling that their quest might be over before it had even begun. "I miss my baby," he sighed.

Sam walked toward the imposing animal and shook his head with a grin, reaching out and calmly patting her strong, muscular shoulder. She turned her head and whittered softly against his hand.

"You've got to get into a horses' psyche," he stated calmly, not raising his voice; "don't show any fear; just be firm and take control, and she'll respect you for it."

Dean swallowed loudly; "be firm, right ..." he took a deep breath. "I'm in charge, I call the shots; I'm a brave and handsome knight," he reassured himself, muttering under his breath; "it's just a horse, it was a farting cow five minutes ago." The whole effect was ruined somewhat when he stepped forward and promptly stumbled over his sword.

He could have sworn the horse rolled her eyes.

"Right," he snorted; "okay Dobbin you great bag o' hay, let's see what you're good for then." Without hesitation, he fumbled his foot into a stirrup, and hoisted himself clumsily into the saddle, swaying precariously as he sat back to settle himself into the deep padded seat.

"S'not so ba ... AAAAGH!"

He had barely been seated a second before the horse sprang into a violent buck, decanting her rider face-first over her head with a resounding clang of armour against stone cobbles.

Not-Bobby palmed his face with a sigh; "holy crap on toast," he sighed; "Cinderella was never this much trouble."

Dean rolled breathlessly onto his back with a long, pained groan, rocking helplessly in his metal armour like an upturned turtle. Looking up through spinning, watery vision he saw the mare glaring down at him with a spectacular stink-eye. She snorted smugly in his face.

Sam stepped forward to help his brother up; "dude," he sighed, "when I said be firm and take control, I didn't mean be totally obnoxious; you kinda deserved that."

Dean grimaced as he staggered to his feet and eyed the horse warily; "Sam, that thing doesn't like me."

Not-Bobby and Sam glanced at each other and shrugged; really? Who was surprised?

xxxxx

"So, what about me," Sam asked as the little faerie buzzed across from his dazed brother into his own line of vision.

"Ah yeah, now we've got Prince Charmless over there sorted out," the reply came with a pointed glance at Dean who stood sulkily holding the horse's reins in one hand and ineffectively cradling his battered rib cage through his armour with the other; "need to get you up and ready!"

Sam spread his arms in readiness; "ready for my armour," he grinned.

Not-Bobby eyed him quizzically; "armour?" he questioned; "We've already got a knight, but a knight needs his squire."

"WHAT?"

Not-Bobby fluttered around Sam and gave that languid airy-fairy wave again, seemingly untroubled by the younger man's argument, and Sam found his vocal protestations silenced by the same strange rushing power and blinding light that had engulfed Dean only a few moments ago.

When the strange sensation faded away, Sam hesitated to open his eyes, afraid of what he might see.

He opened his eyes.

He was right to be afraid.

xxxxx

He looked down to see a leather jerkin over a loose cotton shirt, a belt tied around his middle carried just about every conceivable tool and piece of equipment Sam could ever imagine, and some he probably couldn't. Loose woollen breeches and heavy suede boots made up the remainder of his costume. He either hadn't noticed or chose to ignore the black biggin cap on his head which hung down over his ears.

He heard a snort of barely stifled laughter behind him.

"Not funny Dean," he growled darkly, turning to his amused brother.

Clearly Dean disagreed because his eyes locked onto the close fitting woollen cap on Sam's head and he dissolved into helpless, gut-clutching, tear-streaked laughter.

"That's one hell of an outfit just for cleanin' my armour," Dean hooted between gusts of hilarity.

"If you think I'm cleaning your armour, you can kiss my ass," Sam grumbled sourly. He turned to the Not-Bobby who hovered in front of him, bobbing softly in a passing breeze, and he judged from the stern look on the faerie's bearded face that asking for an alternative outfit wasn't going to end well.

"We goin' or what?" Not-Bobby grunted.

"Don't I at least get a horse?" Sam pleaded, "one like his," he added petulantly; pointing to the beautiful black animal that stood next to Dean, resolutely ignoring his feeble attempts at ingratiating himself.

"Oh yeah ... I hadn't thought about that," Not-Bobby mumbled absently, rubbing his beard; "now, lemmee see ..." Without another word, he set off flying slowly round the deserted town square, casually scanning the cobbles.

"Aha!" He dived toward the ground, then headed back toward the brothers, depositing a snail on the ground between them.

Sam stared open-mouthed at the unfortunate mollusc. "A snail?" He looked up at the hovering faerie; "seriously? What kind of goddamn horse is that gonna make?"

Not-Bobby shrugged; "quit ya whinin'; you got anythin' better I can make a friggin' horse out of?" Without waiting for Sam's reply, he waved his hand over the snail and Sam stumbled backwards, shielding his eyes as the air around it erupted into a blast of white light.

As Sam's vision gradually returned, he blinked wetly, focussing on the massive grey shape that stood in the place of the snail.

It was a mule. A big, sway-backed, pigeon-toed mule with droopy ears, a bald patch, and an undershot jaw that would have made a bulldog proud.

It was possibly the ugliest beast Sam had ever seen.

Sam stood, glaring at the little faerie, trying to ignore the breathless sobs of laughter coming from Dean's direction.

The mule was laden down behind its wooden saddle with a pair of huge saddlebags and a bristling collection of weapons including bows and arrows, quarterstaffs, halberds and axes. It stared torpidly into space and barely even acknowledged Sam's existence.

Sam glanced up at the ominous dark sprawl of the Wildwoods which stained the horizon ahead of them as he clambered inelegantly into the mule's saddle and sighed. Well, this was just freakin' awesome; reduced to being a lowly serf for Sir Douchebag. He was never going to hear the last of this.

Ever.

It was Dean's stupid dream that had brought them here, how the hell had it suddenly turned into Sam's nightmare?

xxxxx

tbc


	7. Chapter 7

The Wildwoods were exactly as Not-Bobby had described them; dark, inhospitable and grim. Beneath the gnarled, grotesque tree canopies, the horses hooves beat a smart but cautious tattoo against the forest's uneven, leaf-strewn floor, the sound of their steps bouncing between the myriad trees that stood, ancient and tangled around them.

The forest was so dense that barely any daylight penetrated it, and the brothers found themselves navigating along the dim track largely thanks to the faint glow emanating from their little faerie guide as he weaved through the branches above them.

Other than the sound of hoofbeats, and the soft whisper of the air through the trees, the forest was utterly silent, putting both brothers on high alert.

A forest was alive and vital; it echoed with birdsong, and thrummed with the sound of small animals scurrying through the underbrush. Here in the Wildwoods, however, all of those sounds were noticeably and disturbingly absent. All of this forest's creatures appeared to be doing their level best to remain unseen and unheard, cultivating a terrible, deafening silence.

This awful place was a living thing without a heartbeat.

A heavy pall of malice and foreboding , as real and oppressive as an oncoming storm, drifted around the Winchesters as they descended deeper into the Wildwoods, and toward whatever dark menace was waiting for them.

They hoped that, whatever it was, they were ready for it.

xxxxx

Dean shifted awkwardly in his saddle. They'd only been riding a couple of hours and his ass was already starting to go numb. He'd mentioned it briefly once or twice, or maybe more, to anyone who might have wanted to listen, but had received no sympathy whatsoever from either Sam or Not-Bobby for his very genuine pains.

However, it appeared that he had managed to make peace with his horse; of that he could take some satisfaction. At least, he figured she wasn't huffing impatiently and looking back at him like he was a moron any more.

Black Beauty he'd named her, Beauty for short. She was glossy, black, powerful and intimidating, just like his baby back home so, although Dean would have to concede it wasn't a particularly original name, it had seemed appropriate.

Beauty was a woman, kind of, and one thing Dean Winchester knew how to do was sweet-talk women. Therefore, he had spent most of their trip through the Wildwoods thus far sweet-talking the hell out of Beauty and now, whilst he wasn't entirely sure if she actually liked him, she didn't appear to hate his guts any longer and, well, that had to be a positive thing.

He reached forward and patted Beauty's strong, arched neck, and she whittered softly in response. Dean sat back and smiled inwardly to himself; even different species of women succumbed to his charms eventually, and that was friggin' awesome.

And just a little bit disturbing too.

xxxxx

A little way ahead of him, Sam and his giant mule were forging a path along the narrowing track, ducking under low branches and carving access through the forest with a machete where the tangled mass of branches around them became denser and lower.

Suddenly, Dean paused; he heard something that wasn't the crack and rustle of Sam smashing his way forward. "Sam," he called quietly; "stop a minute."

Sam froze, mid-hack and glanced round at Dean. Not-Bobby stopped and hovered lazily above his head.

"Listen ..."

All three of them exchanged a glance when they heard the sound that Dean had picked up on.

Running water.

"Must be a river or stream or something," Sam mused.

"Yeah," Dean shrugged in agreement; "whatever, this is good, we can give the horses a drink."

Not-Bobby glanced between the brothers; "we need to keep movin'," he whispered, a sense of urgency behind the words; "give the horses a drink, but make it a quick one."

A few minutes on, the brothers forged through a particularly thick patch of undergrowth to find the source of the noise; a wide, swiftly flowing river with a low, ramshackle bridge across it.

"We'll need to use the bridge," Dean announced, pulling his feet out of the stirrups and sliding clumsily down off of Beauty's back; "that current's way too strong to risk riding the horses across."

Sam slid down from his giant mule and nodded in agreement as they led their animals down to the water to drink.

"Boys," a little voice came from behind them; "I don't like this, be careful; there's something bad about that bridge, look."

Leaving the horses to drink, the brothers turned and crouched, peering into the dark shadows beneath the bridge's algae-slicked underside. It took a moment before their eyes adapted to the darkness enough to make out some scattered shapes, but they gasped in horror as they realised the detritus they saw through the gloom was a cache of discarded bones and grossly mis-shapen armour.

"I think some of your predecessors may have met a sticky end at this bridge," Not-Bobby whispered, tugging urgently at the ear flap of Sam's cap, in an effort to encourage movement away from the river.

"A stinky end too," Dean snorted with a grimace; "this place frickin' reeks," he added, holding his nose for dramatic effect.

The brothers stood, musing over the gruesome debris under the bridge when Dean noticed Beauty stomping down the river bank toward the bridge.

He lunged toward her; "hey, hey, wait, we need to check this out first," he gasped as he grabbed her reins. She snorted disapprovingly, tossing her head as she pawed the ground. Dean didn't speak horse, but he didn't have to to know that look said; 'well get the hell on with it then'.

Dean led her back up the river bank; "you're a woman alright," he grunted; "won't be friggin' told."

Sam glanced back at his mule, seemingly the only member of their party unconcerned by developments, as he munched contentedly on a patch of bulrushes.

"We need to go," Not-Bobby coaxed urgently.

"What do you think?" Sam asked; "I'm kinda with the faerie," he added.

Dean nodded hesitantly; "yeah, we'll deal with trouble if it turns up, but no point goin' looking for it."

He stumbled forward as Beauty snorted impatiently and butted him heavily in the back.

"Okay, okay," grunted Dean, glaring at Beauty; "quit naggin', we're movin' on."

Not-Bobby nodded keenly and buzzed toward the bridge, glancing behind him to ensure the brothers and their respective mounts were following.

They had barely approached the bridge when all three together with their horses stopped in their tracks.

xxxxx

The bridge gave a threatening lurch, and a long, wet groan echoed from beneath it.

The brothers watched in fascinated horror as a huge, ungainly body, twice as tall as Sam and four times as wide, uncurled from beneath the bridge, releasing a foul, malodorous stench as it moved. It shambled out into the river and draped its fat bulk over the side of the bridge, effectively blocking access. Its slimy grey hide glistened like wet suede as its wide, lipless mouth smacked and slavered from under its wrinkled, pendulous jowls. Tiny, bloodshot eyes fixed on the Winchesters and glimmered with a visceral hunger.

"Hey Dean," Sam spoke cautiously without taking his eyes off the foul creature in front of them; "of course, I don't know for sure," he began; "but unless I'm mistaken, I think we got ourselves a troll."

xxxxx

tbc


	8. Chapter 8

"Holy crap!"

Dean would never have realised that it was possible for a flying thing to skid to a halt in mid-air, but that's exactly what Not-Bobby did after he turned and darted back to the brothers and ducked down between them; "it's a friggin' troll," he gasped.

The troll's bloated torso leaned over the side of the bridge; its rolls of fat oozing over the rails like slimy grey molasses. It watched the brothers intently; a moronically blank expression across its spectacularly ugly face. It let out a long wet sniff, and a glistening ribbon of mustard-yellow snot trickled down it's upper lip.

It was only as their stomachs had stopped rolling in disgust, that both brothers noticed what the troll was holding in its huge, calloused hand.

A leg.

A leg which they were both fairly sure had, until recently, belonged to a human body. It lifted the lifeless limb to it's mouth and took a huge bite, slurping flesh and crunching bone, chewing messily.

"Okay, I'm gonna hurl," Dean groaned, feeling his bile rise as he fought to avoid looking at the foul creature ahead of them, when it was bad enough hearing and smelling the thing.

"Okay, ideas?" Sam asked urgently as he backed slowly away from the bridge pulling Dean with him.

"Well, we've got to kill the damn thing," Dean snorted, his voice barely more than an urgent whisper. He glanced between Sam and Not-Bobby; "how the hell do we gank it?" he asked with a helpless shrug.

The three turned back to look at the troll just in time to see the foot disappear into it's dripping maw.

"Sunlight," Not-Bobby whispered; "you expose them to sunlight, they turn to stone," he added.

Dean looked up, scanning their surroundings.

"Okay, any other ideas," he sighed; "no friggin' sunlight in this desolate hole, too many trees."

Not-Bobby rubbed his beard thoughtfully; "well, as far as I know, they can be killed the same ways we can, but their hide is so thick, you have to be able to get close enough to strike a fatal blow with something pretty lethal."

"Hey," Sam's face brightened as he turned to the faerie; "you can do faerie magic; can't you zap it into a hedgehog or something else harmless?"

The little figure shook his head despondently; "no, my faerie magic can't make a mark on any of the creatures you'll find in this forest; sorry boys – too powerful, too dark."

The brothers fell into a nervous silence as their minds worked feverishly.

xxxxx

"Wait, I know," Sam yelped, slapping himself on the forehead as if he'd come to a realisation that was painfully obvious; "Dean, d'you remember the three Billy-Goats Gruff?"

Dean stared back at his brother, incredulous for a moment. "Sam, is there any reason on earth why I should remember the three Billy-Goats friggin' Gruff?

Sam rolled his eyes, "well right now it would've been useful because they outsmarted a troll on a bridge."

"Goats?"

Not-Bobby, swooped down and smacked Dean upside the head; "listen to ya brother, y'idjit."

Sam took a deep breath; "trolls are really stupid," he began.

"Well, goats aren't all that bright ..."

Dean flinched as the little faerie smacked him round the head again; "well, you'd know all about that," he snorted.

"Trolls are really stupid," Sam continued regardless; "and in the three Billy-Goats Gruff, the little goat crossed the bridge first and told the troll that the bigger one would make a better meal, so the troll let him go."

Dean nodded hesitantly.

"the the bigger one went across the bridge and told the troll that the biggest goat would make a better meal, so the troll let him go over too."

"What, trolls speak goat?"

Sam sighed. "Dean, I will hurt you," he stated calmly.

Dean grinned.

"So will she," added Sam, pointing behind Dean.

Dean turned to see Beauty's face hovering only inches from his own, its angry glare blazing in his direction. She released a hot, moist warning snort squarely into his face.

His grin faded as he turned back to Sam.

"So," Sam continued, glancing nervously over his shoulder at the troll who didn't seem to be making any move toward them just yet; "the two smaller goats got across because the stupid troll believed what they said, and the bigger one was big and strong enough to kill the troll."

"So, what're you saying?" Dean shrugged.

"I'm saying, if three goats can outsmart a troll, we should be able to."

Dean nodded in agreement; "I guess so," he replied.

"So, I reckon if you and Bobby try to talk to it, and get across the bridge then I'll ..."

"No," Dean raised his hand to silence Sam. "I'm not leaving you to fight that thing at full strength alone; you might be a freakin' sasquatch, but you're not that big. We need to figure out a way to get it at a disadvantage."

Sam scowled; "well we'd better figure out something pretty damn quick," he grumbled, "look!"

Dean turned on Sam's prompt to notice that the troll had stepped up onto the bridge and was lumbering slowly toward them. They took a slow step backwards, barely noticing Not-Bobby hovering in front of them, spreading the full fourteen-inch span of his arms as if to protect them.

"Hunnnnnn-gry ..." it moaned, it's voice reverberating through the forest like a rumble of thunder; "wannnn' eat ...".

Dean elbowed Sam in the ribs; "hey, I've got an idea."

Sam opened his mouth to ask the question but was cut off. "Just let me do the talking," Dean hissed through clenched teeth; "follow my lead."

Sam's eyes narrowed suspiciously; this had reckless written all over it.

Not-Bobby clearly agreed with Sam because he glared at the older Winchester; "don't you go doin' anything stupid," he warned; "my faerie magic might not work on a troll, but it does work on idjits like you. I'll leave the mule as he is, an' turn you into a friggin' snail.

Dean treated them both to a grin that looked far more confident than he felt.

The troll had practically reached their side of the bridge at that point; it stopped abruptly as Dean approached it.

"Hey, buddy," he called out to the troll.

It stared stupidly at him, blinking its rheumy eyes in confusion.

"See, the thing is," Dean explained, fighting to keep a nervous quiver out of his voice; "we need for one of us to get across this bridge. Now, I can see you eyeing up my brother there, but trust me, you wouldn't want to eat him; he's all musclebound and hard. I'm telling you, meat like old boot-leather, you'll be picking gristle out of your teeth for months if you eat him."

"Dean," Sam hissed.

"Shaddup," Dean replied without taking his eyes from the troll.

"Uuuuuunngh?" The troll scratched it's bald head with it's blood-caked fingers.

"Now me," Dean gestured toward himself with his thumb; "this beefcake here's as tender as a newborn lamb," he grinned; "look, I'm all fresh," he tapped his finger against his gleaming breastplate; "I'm in a can."

The troll's tongue flopped out of its shapeless mouth like a massive brown slug, and moistened its lips.

"Trust me, my meat'll fall off my bones," Dean continued; "I'll taste so freakin' good, I'm starting to regret I won't be around to enjoy me myself." He patted his breastplate again; "don't you just wanna get a taste of this fine, lean brisket?"

"DEAN," Sam snapped.

"Shut it Sam," Dean replied abruptly, making a point of flicking his eyes across to Sam's mule, and the bristling collection of armaments that adorned its haunches.

Sam's eyes locked onto a particularly long, fierce-looking pikestaff and suddenly he understood.

The troll, unaware of the brothers' silent exchange, thrust a finger up it's right nostril and rooted enthusiastically while it pondered Dean's words.

"So, why don't you let my brother cross the bridge," Dean coaxed cautiously, his heart pounding in his chest; "then I promise - an' I'm a knight, I have to keep my promises - I promise you'll be in for a gastronmic treat!"

Not-Bobby hovered above them, his tiny bloodless face a mask of nervous anticipation; what the hell was this kid up to?

The troll's miniscule brain went through it's machinations, trying to process what Dean had told it. It was salivating wildly at the thought of the feast that Dean had just described, and after what seemed like forever, it trudged off the bridge and moved clumsily aside, gesturing for Sam to pass.

He hesitated before reluctantly gathering up the mule's reins and stepping forward to sidle nervously past the troll; his eyes never leaving his brother's nervously grinning face as he did.

xxxxx

Dean's heart was in his mouth as Sam moved past the troll, and he found his hand straying to the hilt of his sword, only relaxing again as Sam and his mule stepped clear of the troll's threatening presence.

"Thank you," Dean breathed a sigh of relief as he took a step toward the massive creature, bowing his head as if ready to accept his his fate.

"Meeeeaaat ..." a shadow fell across Dean as the troll loomed over him, reaching out to claim his prize.

He looked up just in time to see the troll convulse wildly, yawning a groaning, wet screech as the razor-sharp head of the pikestaff burst out through it's belly. It staggered sideways one way, then the other, before toppling slowly forward like a felled oak, spewing green blood across the ground, and collapsing face down into the forest floor with a thunderous crash.

Sam stood on the bridge panting with the sheer effort it had taken to skewer the creature as he stared at the huge grey bulk, the long, thick shaft of the pikestaff sticking jauntily out of it's back like a candle out of a birthday cake. He had to admit, Dean's idea to distract it and attack from behind was a good one; worthy of those three billy-goats.

"Dean," he called.

"Dean?" He felt concern growing in him when no answer was forthcoming.

"DEAN?"

"Uh, Sam, I think you need to get over here," Not-Bobby bobbed up and down over the troll carcass excitedly, gesturing for Sam to join him. There was a sense of urgency in his movements.

Sam shimmied round the huge, stinking bulk as directed and stopped in his tracks when he realised where his brother was.

Dean lay flat on his back, helplessly pinned and spreadeagled under the troll's massive body, only his head and one arm visible, grimacing as green blood and troll snot dripped onto his face.

"Dean," Sam dropped to his knees; "Dean, y'okay man?"

Eyes bulging alarmingly, Dean croaked a breathless plea for help as another trickle of troll fluids dripped onto his nose.

xxxxx

Sam was eternally grateful for his mule's faithful and uncomplaining help in shifting the dead troll, and had to concede that Dean cut a pitiful figure as he stood, leaning heavily against Sam, swaying in a rubber-legged daze every time he tried to move under his own steam, his hair spiked with drying goo, face crusted green and breastplate dented in the shape of the troll's elbow.

"S'mmy," he slurred, staring up at Sam's face through unfocussed, slightly crossed eyes; " y'know those three grilly-boats?

Sam grinned and glanced up at Not-Bobby's relieved smile; "yeah, dude, I know them," he replied.

Dean's eyes uncrossed briefly as he frowned.

"They freakin' suck."

xxxxx

tbc


	9. Chapter 9

Sitting slumped on a fallen tree stump, Dean winced as Sam stood behind him, working hard to jemmy him out of his dented armour.

A little way along the riverbank, the gutted carcass of the fallen troll tainted the air with a stinking fug that smelled, according to Dean, worse than every cadaver the Winchesters had ever exhumed piled up on a hot day and roasted in chicken shit. He was painfully aware that having been liberally slathered in a cocktail of various troll fluids, his own personal aroma was equally anti-social.

Not-Bobby was keeping himself at a safe distance, having gotten too close just once; Dean had never seen a faerie puke before, he never really wanted to again.

Beauty was also keeping her distance. Standing upwind, she glared at Dean with a combination of revulsion and social embarrassment; even Sam's mule had decided to move as far away as possible before the foul stink interfered with his appetite.

Only Sam; faithful squire Sam, was dutifully standing over Dean, blinking watering eyes and working hard to remove the damaged armour, not to mention working even harder to avoid vomiting down the back of Dean's neck.

Eventually the dented breastplate came away with a pained creak and Dean sucked in a deep breath, groaning as his bruised chest protested.

He turned, and Sam recoiled violently as a waft of troll turned with him.

"I guess this is your first job as my squire," Dean sighed, staring down sadly at the dented armour as he wiped a forearm across his slime-stained forehead; "you can help me clean up too."

"No way dude," Sam choked; "I'll hammer the dent out of your armour, no problem; but my job description doesn't run to wiping troll-snot off of your face. You're on your own there, bro'."

Dean huffed petulantly, "well I can't go off and rescue fair damsel smelling like a troll's ass," he moaned; "and even if I could, the friggin' horse won't let me anywhere near her." He glanced up accusingly at Beauty who stared defiantly back at him, wrinkling her nose in disgust without a hint of guilt.

"Go an' wash up in the river," Sam suggested patiently as he rummaged through the mule's saddlebags for the tools he would need.

Dean glared at the back of Sam's head and stomped off huffily; "this river's current's freakin' deadly," he snorted; "you'll regret it when my broken, drowned body gets washed ashore thirty miles upstream."

"Don't get your leather boots wet, water stains are hell to shift," was the sum total of Sam's response.

xxxxx

Dean walked slowly down the riverbank listening as the 'ding-ding-ding' of Sam hammering his armour back into shape receded into the distance. As he scanned the river for a suitable place to stop and clean up, his eye caught a tiny sparkle through the trees.

Cautiously he wandered away from the river, following the teasing glint of light, to find a large lake in a clearing among the trees. The rare sunlight was dazzling against the forest's usual gloom as it shimmered and danced on the lake's surface.

Dean smiled at the welcoming gleam of the cool, fresh water. He'd found his bathtub.

Kicking off his boots, he shucked the gambeson and rinsed it in the water at the lake's edge, hanging it over a low branch to dry. That done, he unlaced his breeches, tossing them aside until he was standing on the shifting shingle around the lake's deserted bank in just his underwear.

He squinted through the sunlight as he scanned the water, crystalline bright, and as still as a mirror. He could see small fish drifting lazily beneath the ripples caused by their movement and pondskaters darting around on the lake's twinkling surface. Beside him, a tangle of yellow and white orchids clung to water's lapping edges.

This place was a little oasis of purity and calm in this foul, evil place.

xxxxx

Pulling off his socks, Dean took a tentative step into the lake, shuddering as the cold, fresh water embraced his bare feet.

He waded deeper into the lake, gasping at the chill of the water around his knees, then his thighs, goosebumps erupting across his skin as he ventured into deeper water, further and further away from the bank . Eventually, he took a deep breath and allowed himself to fall forward, immersing his torso into the frigid water, letting out a breathy yelp as the water closed over his shoulders and he pushed forward into a slow breaststroke.

Gradually, the cold water began to feel less like ice-cold knives tearing into his bare skin, and more like skilled fingers, cleansing and refreshing his bruised and sullied body. He pulled in another slow deep breath, relishing the feeling of his lungs opening up as the cold shock of entering the water receded and along with it the fetid stink of troll.

He ducked his head beneath the surface, cleansing his face and hair, and couldn't help but offer a whispered apology to the fish for rocking up and tainting their pretty lake with stinky troll fluids but hey, needs must when a troll drips on your face and you've got a smokin' hot damsel to impress, huh?

xxxxx

Time passed, and Dean watched fat white clouds drifting across a cornflour-blue sky as he worked his way across the lake at a lazy backstroke. Relaxed and refreshed, if it wasn't for this hot chick needing help, Dean would have been content to stay here forever; or at least until he succumbed to hypothermia.

However, his brief moment of calm was rudely interrupted when the top of his head suddenly butted into something very firm and very big behind him.

With a gasp and an untidy flailing of limbs, he flipped over in the water onto his belly. He spluttered and blinked through the splashing water, glancing up to look at the obstacle that had halted his progress.

He found himself staring up at an elegant black head crowned by a long silky forelock curling over intelligent brown eyes which gazed at him from under long dark lashes. The creature's strong neck arched downward, into an affectionate nod, letting out a warm snort from a delicate, velvety-soft muzzle.

"Beauty!"

Dean grinned as the midnight-dark figure loomed over him in the water, the satin sheen of her gleaming jet-black coat reflecting the sunlight like polished silver.

"So, I'm forgiven am I?" He smiled, patting her shoulder; "now that I don't stink, you wanna know me again?"

Beauty pawed the bed of the lake, the frigid water splashing around her slender legs and she lowered her head, nuzzling Dean's shoulder before gently butting him so that he stumbled backwards, almost falling ass-first into the lake.

"Hey, mind the merchandise," he chuckled; "it's already damaged goods after Jabba the friggin' Hutt flattened it."

He found his footing again, and leaned into the horse, rubbing a cool palm along her long flat forehead.

"DEAN!"

Dean's head whipped round, hearing Sam's sharp voice on the other side of the lake and saw his brother, wide-eyed with fear, standing on the bank. Close beside him, the fat mule chomped happily at the lush grass, seemingly unmoved by proceedings as the little glowing dot of Not-Bobby hovered over its back. What concerned Dean the most, however, was what Dean could see standing at Sam's other side ...

Beauty.

"Dean, get away from it," Sam cried frantically; "it's a kelpie, Beauty sensed it; get outta the lake, it's deadly."

Dean's head swivelled back to look up at the horse standing beside him, and immediately it's liquid brown eyes flashed vivid red. They were the last thing he saw before it bared its teeth, and with unnatural speed, clutched his shoulder, dragging him down toward the deepest water out in the centre of the lake.

xxxxx

Sam cried out Dean's name again as he saw his brother disappear under the water, and dashed forward, wildly pounding through the water until it became too deep for him to run, and he could only move forward at a laboured, lurching hobble.

Not-Bobby swooped after him, finding the spot where Dean disappeared and circling it, searching greedily for signs of life like a hungry gull.

As Sam plunged through the thigh-deep water, he was almost bowled over as a large black shape thundered past him. Half-galloping, half-swimming, Beauty's powerful legs churned the water into foam. She gradually slowed as the water became too deep for her to go any further, letting out a furious snort toward the point where Dean had disappeared and followed it up with a bitter neigh that tore across the sunlit sky, echoing through the trees around them.

She stood motionless, immersed up to her haunches, watching as the water in the centre of the lake began to rumble. A bulging circular ripple, it began to spread outwards, foaming and bubbling furiously, rising higher and higher until the kelpie slowly emerged from the centre of it. Through it all, Beauty stood her ground, watching intently as the creature rose up to meet her.

Sam watched transfixed as Beauty called out again; a chilling, bitter sound that made his blood run cold, and the kelpie, an ethereal spirit horse in its real form, composed of nothing but running water, strode over the surface of the lake toward her.

"One faerie horse against another," Not-Bobby whispered in quiet awe; "it's answered her call."

Paying no attention to his faerie companion, Sam began to lumber clumsily through the water toward the point where the kelpie had emerged, his chest tight with panic until he saw Dean's head break the surface, arms flailing as he gasped and choked.

Swimming out toward his brother, Sam grasped Dean under the arms and pulled him back though the water. His actions went ignored by the two horses as they stood, one in the water, one on it, and faced each other in what was looking to be an intensely hostile standoff.

Beauty's ears were flat against her head, her teeth bared, the whites of her eyes stark against her black coat as she glared up intently into the kelpie's haunting, colourless eyes. She took a slow step backwards through the water as the sinister creature loomed above her and took a step forward.

"B-Beauty," Dean spluttered, coughing wetly as he slumped limply on the bank of the lake in the V of his brother's legs. He was barely aware of Sam sitting behind him and placing his own thick jerkin over his wet shoulders; "help her," he pleaded, lurching forward and puking up another mouthful of water as Sam aimed a heavy slap between his shoulder blades.

They watched in fearful anticipation as the kelpie advanced again across the surface of the lake, and Beauty took another step back through the water.

"No," Not-Bobby muttered quietly, "wait …"

The kelpie advanced again, tossing its translucent head and snorting a fine watery mist, forcing Beauty to backpedal again; all the time never breaking eye-contact with the creature. They could see her haunches gradually emerging from the water as it became shallower with every step backwards she took

"She's in trouble," Sam snapped; "we've got to help her."

"No, wait, " the little faerie allowed a smile to creep across his face, "she knows exactly what she's doing ..."

The kelpie's eyes glowed red as it stepped forward once again, bearing down on Beauty who was forced to retreat further, then further still, until she was forced up onto the loose shingle at the lake's bank.

The brothers held their breath, barely blinking as the standoff continued and Beauty, now finally at the same level as the kelpie, continued to defy it, despite retreating further and further back with every stride.

Suddenly, she tossed her head arrogantly, breaking eye contact, and stepped aside, allowing the kelpie to see that it had pushed her far up onto the bank of the lake and, in doing so, it stood with its own two front feet on the ground.

It recoiled, letting out a forlorn squeal and thrashed pathetically before bursting into a massive plume of water that rained down onto Beauty and the ground around her before trickling harmlessly back into the lake.

"It's a water spirit," Not-Bobby explained breathlessly to the shocked Winchesters; "it can't exist on dry land."

"Our girl tricked it," he added with a proud grin.

Dean scraped his soaked hair back off of his forehead and his wet face lifted into a grin as he watched the elegant black mare standing on the edge of the lake, looking across at the three men, waiting casually for their adulation.

"Sam," he croaked, glancing up at his brother as he burrowed back into the thick jerkin; "I think I'm in love with a horse."

xxxxx

tbc


	10. Chapter 10

Following an uncomfortable night recovering from Dean's ordeal in the lake, the Winchesters; cold, aching, hungry and sleep deprived, were dismayed to discover they were barely halfway through the Wildwoods and, according to Not-Bobby's instructions, needed to get their asses moving faster to make the edge of the dismal, sprawling forest by sundown.

Sam glanced across at his mule who stood leaning idly against a tree casually munching on a dead bush, and pondered briefly that he'd be lucky to get that ass moving at all without the aid of a cattle-prod and a favourable tailwind.

Not-Bobby for his part had been as helpful as he was able. Along with Beauty, their little faerie guardian had watched over the exhausted Winchesters as they attempted to sleep on the unyielding dampness of the forest floor and, despite the fact that his faerie magic was stifled by the oppressive evil that pervaded the dismal murk of the Wildwoods, he had even managed to rustle up enough power to change a small collection of stray pinecones into apples for their breakfast. At one memorable attempt, he had even managed a peach, but such was the effort required, he'd to go and lie down afterwards.

On the little faerie's insistence that they 'pick up the pace', the Winchesters duly obliged, and were swiftly presented with a new problem.

Beauty's idea of 'picking up the pace' was to launch into a wild, headlong gallop that would have put the Pony Express to shame. Plunging effortlessly through the forest she completely ignored her panic-stricken rider who was hanging half out of her saddle, clinging round her neck like a monkey up a stick, newly-repaired breastplate rattling furiously with the rapid beat of her hooves, and screaming 'for the love of God, slow the hell down y' crazy bitch' at the top of his lungs.

The mule's idea of 'pick up the pace' was to stop and eat every four strides instead of every three.

xxxxx

Finally, Beauty deigned to stop only as she began to tire, and Dean found himself and his headstrong mount standing in an unfamiliar stretch of forest miles ahead of Sam, his mule and Not-Bobby.

Slipping down out of the saddle he stood shakily on legs like water, resisting the urge to kiss the ground and glared at Beauty through eyes glazed with the adrenaline hit of a near-death experience. He scraped a shaking hand through his windblown hair, dislodging a collection of leaves, loose twigs and one traumatised caterpillar.

Beauty stared levelly back at him with an expression that spelled out 'you steaming great girl' in big pink sparkly letters.

xxxxx

"Where the hell are we?"

Scanning the forest all around him, Dean could see that this particular patch of the Wildwoods was far thicker and more verdant than any they had seen before, the trees lusher, somehow more alive.

He glanced back as he picked his way apprehensively through the dense tangle of trees, to see if Beauty was following him, and paused as his belly gave a long, pained gurgle which seemed to echo melodically within his breastplate.

"Freakin' stupid fairytale forests," he snorted with a frown; "where's a gingerbread cottage when you need one?"

Beauty carefully reached up with her long, elegant neck and clutched a branch in her teeth, pulling it down toward her and stripping it of leaves in one smooth, effortless motion. She turned to stare directly at Dean with an expression expertly calculated to cause maximum aggravation as she chewed calmly.

"Y'know, you're really pushin' your luck considerin' you're edible," Dean snorted with a sigh and leaned back against a tree, sliding down until he was sitting on the mossy slope of its roots.

"M'gonna take a nap while we wait for Sam," he grunted, closing his eyes, then opening one to glance up at Beauty. "You may as well friggin' earn your lunch and watch over me, so I don't get eaten by some damn goblin or the Easter bunny or whatever the heck else freaky crap lives in this forest."

Dean folded his arms behind his head and soon felt himself drifting off, soothed by the whisper of the breeze through the emerald ceiling of the tree canopy and Beauty's soft champing as she availed herself of the abundant feast this part of the forest offered.

Dean's reverie didn't last long and he woke with a start when he felt something narrow and rigid suddenly move beneath his ass.

"What the … ?" he jerked forward; "Are there bugs here? Have I got a bug up my ass?"

Before he even had a chance to scramble to his feet, he felt it again. "Sonofabitch … I've jus' 'been probed – something jabbed me in my ass!"

He leapt upright, rubbing his assaulted cheek. A closer inspection showed that it wasn't a bug, not even any kind of animal, but a roaming tendril of the tree he was leaning against.

He cocked his head as he crouched to get a closer look, and gasped as he felt another tendril moving, this time wrapping itself around his ankle; "what the hell?"

Hopping backwards, he wildly tried to shake it free, but it held fast.

He reached down to his scabbard to draw his sword but another tendril coiled down, grabbing his arm, and tugging it safely away from his sword. Another, then another joined it, wrapping round his legs and his waist, reeling him in toward the tree trunk.

xxxxx

Dean fought furiously as more and more tendrils coiled around him; "get your goddamn creepers off me you sonofa … a-a … bush."

The more Dean struggled and lashed out, the more tendrils and twigs descended on him, wrapping him up tighter and tighter, pinning him to the tree trunk like some unfortunate fly wrapped in spider silk. He grimaced and squirmed as he felt encroaching tendrils working their way inside his armour; up inside his breastplate, and down the greaves around his legs,

"Nghhhh," he bucked and strained hard against the bonds that were still around him; "get off me, dammit."

Letting out a distressed whinny, Beauty turned, bolting off back in the direction they had come, but Dean didn't see her leave as more tendrils closed around his face, effectively blindfolding him. He hoped she had gone to find Sam. Dean was beyond helping himself now, he couldn't even struggle; he was simply plastered helplessly to the tree trunk.

His muffled curses were lost behind a thick twig that had closed across his mouth in the manner of a gag, but not for long as he bit down hard on it, smirking when he felt it recoil and jerk away from his face. He stretched his jaw for a moment then let loose with a tirade of obscenities.

His voice trailed off as he heard a woman's voice speak up.

"You will not speak that way toward the dryads."

Dean blinked as the tendrils across his face withdrew allowing him to see again. He really kinda wished they hadn't.

The woman that stood before him was a tree. Or at least she had once been a tree. Or she just looked like one … or whatever. She was a dryad.

Her naked body was a tree trunk, slim and beautifully contoured in all the right places, but still a tree trunk. Large round knots scarred the bark and formed two intense black eyes that bored deep into Dean's own shock-glazed bulging eyes, making him squirm; the voluminous mass of hair that floated around her head and cascaded down her back was not hair at all, but leaves, rich and green and as innumerable as raindrops in a spring shower.

Yep, she was a tree. Dean had pissed off a tree.

"Well, I guess I'll speak that way seein' as you've attacked me an' tied me up," Dean snorted, trying to cover his fear with anger; "why the heck are you attacking me?"

"Men like you rape the earth for stones and build castles without a thought for the creatures you dislodge and kill; your people have come into the forest and torn my sisters down, slicing their limbs apart and making fires from their dying bodies. You are destroyers and plunderers and you will pay the price for the cruelty and arrogance of your people just as those who came through the forest before you have done.

"You killed those other dudes?" Dean growled, wincing as the tendrils tightened around his arms.

"It was necessary," the dryad replied flatly, "you must understand; it was necessary."

"But what about my friggin' horse?" Dean snapped; "she was eatin' you and you aren't tying her up!"

"She is a being of nature," the dryad smiled beatifically; "we live in a beautiful symbiosis with the creatures of the earth and the air; we gladly feed them and accommodate them."

"You are not a being of nature," she added.

"Oh, I'm freakin' sorr …"

Dean's voice croaked into silence as he felt the tendrils tightening, around his arms and legs, but more concerningly around his chest and neck. He began to gasp for air.

"When you are dead, your bones will nourish the forest and you will forever have our gratitude."

Dean wiggled against his bonds, gritting his teeth as he bunched his shoulders, flexing his biceps to try to break free of the tendrils, but their hold on him was too strong.

He felt his vision beginning to dim as the tendrils tightened further, and his mind began to fill with fog. He could hear the blood pounding in his ears, a continuous rhythmic cadence growing louder and louder. Dean was simply too disorientated to realise that the sound he heard wasn't his heartbeat, it was hoofbeats.

xxxxx

Beauty went from 'frantic gallop' to 'stop' in the space of two strides and slid to a halt across the forest floor dislodging a riot of dust and deadfall around her, as Sam leapt off her back brandishing an axe.

"Let him go you bitch," Sam yelled towards the dryad who stepped back nervously, her face an inscrutable mixture of fear, anger and regret.

He glared at the dryad and turned back to see Dean's predicament, furiously swinging the axe toward the tree that held him, close enough to Dean's arm to elicit a flinch and a pained whimper from his brother.

The axe struck with a hollow crack, dislodging whirling splinters of tree bark, and carving a deep, narrow wedge out of the trunk, severing several of the tendrils that held Dean. The tree shook violently, at the onslaught and the tendrils began to retract whipping away from Dean's body. Eventually, after three more well-aimed strikes of Sam's axe, Dean's bonds loosened enough for him to drop limply away from the tree to his knees, holding his grazed neck and gasping for air.

"C'mon," Not-Bobby prompted the brothers, we can't hang around; we gotta keep movin'. These damn dryads will try again if we hang about."

Sam dragged Dean up by the arm and together they stumbled along the narrow track which threaded a winding route through the trees with Beauty cantering after them and Not-Bobby bringing up the rear, goading the unwilling mule into something resembling a trot.

As they piled desperately through the forest, a grasping latticework of branches reached out over them, snatching and clutching at the little band, vicious leaf-tipped branches, and narrow, coiling tendrils whipping across their faces, tugging and pulling. There was a rip as one latched on to Sam's jerkin, tearing the sleeve off; but eventually, the little band found themselves in far a less dense part of the forest, with trees that thankfully seemed a lot less animated.

Not-Bobby fluttered around cautiously, examining the trees until he seemed satisfied; "nope, these ain't dryads, "he announced with a smart nod; "these are jus' trees."

The brothers stood, shoulder to shoulder as they doubled over, bracing their hands on their knees, panting with the exertion of their rapid escape. "If I never see another friggin' forest as long as I live, it won't be long enough," Dean grumbled, rubbing his grazed neck; "Now, I'm hungry, tired AND sore."

"Yeah well," Sam added, standing up straight and walking away, "I'm all those things too … and I need a pee as well."

He stomped over to a mighty tree trunk, fiddling with the laces on his breeches as he went.

"Gimme a sec," he called over his shoulder as he planted his feet wide and stood facing the mossy bark, "I'm just gonna water this tree."

Dean turned as he heard a gasp and saw Not-Bobby hanging in mid-air, eyes wide, and mouth agape with obvious horror.

"Sam," he croaked; "that's not a tree."

"It's not a friggin' dryad?" Dean snorted, reaching for his sword.

The little faerie shook his head mutely; "no, it's a goddamn leg!"

xxxxx

tbc


	11. Chapter 11

At Not-Bobby's shout, Sam's eyes slowly tilted skyward with a terrible sense of impending dread.

As his equilibrium shifted, he heard the muffled trickling sound of him emptying his bladder over the mossy contours of the tree trunk to the harsher spattering sound of him emptying his bladder over the toe of his left boot.

He stumbled backwards with a cry of alarm, rapidly and damply packing himself away as the tree-trunk which wasn't a tree trunk at all but was in fact a leg, lifted and shook itself irritably. The action was accompanied by a harsh grumbling moan from way above their heads.

"Holy crap," Not-Bobby gasped, his little crumpled face paling as he stared wide-eyed up at a massive stooping figure emerging through the tree canopy, bearing down on Sam's, for once, diminutive form which stood helplessly between its feet, paralysed with fear.

"Yeah, what you said," Dean snapped, lurching forward and grabbing Sam unceremoniously by the remaining sleeve of his jerkin, trying to drag him away; "c'mon we gotta go."

The little band turned and ran; even the mule seemed to have sensed the urgency of the situation and was cantering clumsily after them, a cacophony of rattling pots, pans and assorted armaments clattering merrily along with every inelegant hoofbeat.

Behind them, they could hear massive, heavy footfalls, crashing through the forest and scattering trees like matchwood. The ground shook like an earthquake rolling along behind them and although the sound was terrifying; what was even more frightening was the fact that it was undoubtedly gaining on them.

Dean barely had time to blink in shock as a huge hand reached down and grasped Sam, engulfing him from chest to knees. All he could do was stand and watch helplessly as his brother's terrified face receded up through the tree canopy.

"SAM" he cried in vain.

xxxxx

Sam writhed and fought within the grip of the huge fingers that encircled him, wildly pummelling them with his fists before he realised that here, some thirty feet above the ground, being held was probably marginally preferable to being let go.

He took a deep breath to calm himself. Beneath him, he could hear Dean, bringing a new and highly vocal definition to the phrase 'going berserk', and Not-Bobby trying frantically, and with limited success it seemed, to convince the cursing and raging Winchester that stabbing the giant through the foot with a pikestaff was probably not a great idea given Sam's current situation.

Sam was inclined to agree. He was wrapped up in a colossal hand that could squish him in a heartbeat; he had to handle this carefully if he wanted to be handled carefully himself, and his case wasn't going to be helped by a full-on Dean conniption.

He craned his head around to sneak a look into the face of his abductor. If someone was going to grind his bones to make their bread, he reckoned was entitled to get a look at them.

It was not the sort of face he had been expecting at all. Rosy complexioned and round, its huge, blue eyes regarded him suspiciously. Full, rosebud lips clenched in a puzzled pout as the creature canted its head, studying him so closely its eyes crossed and Sam felt his cheeks colour under the scrutiny.

A long wisp of unruly blonde hair tumbled down over its forehead and curled across the bridge of its upturned nose.

The undeniably female face was not unpleasant; massive, sure, terrifying, definitely; but surprisingly pretty in a rustic, flaxen-haired milkmaid kind of way.

Sam stared back up at the face, shifting slightly and pulling in a shallow, gasping breath as the grip around his chest tightened.

A lady giant … a giantess.

This put a whole new perspective on the situation.

xxxxx

Sam wasn't beneath playing dirty, and he immediately switched on the puppydog face. Not just any old puppydog face; not the one that worked on Dean, not even the one that worked on Bobby, but the ten-thousand megawatt, hi-octane kicked puppydog face with pitifully sad, tear-bright eyes, slightly apologetic smile and cavernous dimples.

The giantess cocked her head as she regarded the little being in her hand and her vast pink lips quirked upwards into the faintest of smiles.

"I'm really very sorry, Ma'am," he began contritely, fighting to keep his voice from quivering; "I really didn't mean to, well, you know …"

A breathy giggle erupted in his face, and Sam recoiled as a massive huff of hot breath blew his hated cap off his head.

"If there's anything I can do to make amends," he continued, blinking spit out of his eyes; "of course, you only have to ask."

A gargantuan fingertip smoothed back the hair on top of his head.

"I'm on my way across the Bleaklands," Sam stammered; "I'm sure we can find a laundry or something," he babbled, cringing as he listened to the crap that was tumbling out of his mouth; "I mean, they're such nice stockings … that, um, muddy sorta brown really suits you, and it'd be a shame to, um …"

Sam gave up.

The fingertip continued on its path downward, stroking the side of his face.

"Hey, get a friggin' room you two." Sam flinched as he heard Not-Bobby's voice; he hadn't even realised the little faerie had flown up to find him.

Clearly besotted with her prize, the giantess was oblivious to the tiny pink dot that fluttered busily around her head.

xxxxx

"L-look," Sam pleaded, hoping to capitalise on his captor's apparent warmth toward him; "please put me down; my brother and I have got to cross the Bleaklands to the castle of Grimwald. There's someone there who needs our help; someone who's very lonely and frightened."

Sam's entire world was taken up with two huge cornflower blue eyes which regarded him intently from under thick golden lashes with a combination of affection and something else; something that could have been sadness.

Sam stared back into the face, hearing the faint buzz of Not-Bobby's wings behind his head. As the giantess didn't seem in any way troubled by the idea of the brothers invading Grimwald's castle, he took a hopeful guess that she might turn out to be one of the good guys, and continued cautiously.

"Grimwald's real evil," Sam ventured; "we want to rescue this lady who needs our help, and if that means we have to kill him, we'll do it; we know stuff that other knights don't know."

Pausing for a moment, Sam stared into the intense gaze that held him in its sky blue embrace. "Perhaps I can take some of his gold to replace your stockings," he added eagerly.

Not-Bobby palmed his face with a groan; he was pretty sure the giantess had gone way beyond being interested in her stupid stockings any more.

The sad blue eyes widened, and Sam felt himself being studied and evaluated even more closely. He squirmed, feeling like a bug in a child's jam jar.

Before he knew what was happening, Sam suddenly found himself squashed lavishly against the giant's enormous pillowy bosom, gasping for breath as it rose with a sigh. He considered briefly that Dean would probably get so much more out of this experience if it were him and not Sam up here being bosomed to death by Miss Lovey-Dovey Giantess.

He felt the world swing nauseously as the giantess turned and began stomping through the forest, still gripping the object of her affection tightly to her heaving bosom.

"Hang in there son," Not-Bobby whispered, buzzing around the back of Sam's head.

Extricating his face from a cleavage which ensured that he would never again be able to say the words 'Grand Canyon' without shuddering, Sam glared at the little faerie; "don't have much choice, do I?

"I think she's taking you to the Bleaklands."

xxxxx

It took about an hours' crashing through the Wildwoods before Sam realised that they had reached the edge of the forest and were staring across the Bleaklands.

The Bleaklands were perfectly named; a barren expanse of rocks and dust covered with a sparse stubble of shrivelled gorse which was dotted with a small number of stunted, skeletal tree carcasses.

Soupy grey clouds tumbled overhead as if even the sky was cursed in this godforsaken place.

Scanning the horizon, Sam's curious eyes settled on the one thing that broke the vast haunting emptiness that stretched out before him. A great stone hulk; possibly the ugliest castle he'd ever seen.

He looked down to see Dean and Beauty emerge from the forest way below him, both gasping and coated in sweat from their exertions of keeping up with the giantess.

Finally the mule trotted up behind them and dipped his head, scanning the Bleaklands menu disapprovingly.

"Damnit Sam can you get your girlfriend to slow down?" Dean snorted, sliding bonelessly down out of Beauty's saddle. He stooped, leaning heavily against his panting horse and timidly kneaded his backside; "Beauty needs a breather and my freakin' ass is skinned."

Sam looked down on his brother's flushed, sweat-dampened face.

"Trust me dude," he snorted, "the ride's no smoother up here."

The little band stood silently staring over the empty grey nothingness that lay before them, blinking as a harsh wind scuttled across the ground, whipping up a cloud of dust.

"There it is boys," Not-Bobby muttered softly, almost as if he was afraid of being heard; "the princess is in that goddamn ruin over there."

He glanced across at Dean and then up at Sam.

"We got three days, and then she dies."

xxxxx

tbc


	12. Chapter 12

"You brought us here, to the Bleaklands." Sam shifted within the giantess' gentle grasp and looked up into her face as he spoke; "thank you so much."

Canting her head, she gazed down at him as if he were something rare and priceless; a precious jewel in her hand to be treasured and guarded. Sam regarded her face, it was glowing with an expression of warmth and love but he couldn't miss the undercurrent of sadness he noticed there.

Her huge blue eyes flickered across to the castle, then back onto Sam and the intense sorrow brooding in those eyes took Sam's breath away.

He hesitated for a moment before speaking; "did Grimwald hurt you?" He kept his tone deliberately gentle.

She nodded slowly, biting her plush pink lip.

Sam frowned and gripped the top of her thumb between his hands, giving it a comforting squeeze. "Then my brother and me, we'll hurt him back," Sam replied softly; "I promise you."

Her lips quirked into a soft and grateful smile as she cupped Sam in her hands and tenderly lowered him down to the ground beside Dean.

"Y'ok?" Dean asked quietly.

Sam nodded; "Yeah," he smiled; "been well looked after."

Dean scanned Sam's face which still seemed slightly flushed and crumpled from his time wedged against the buxom giantess' voluminous cleavage.

"So I see," he grunted.

xxxxx

Throughout the brothers' exchange, the giantess paid them little attention, busily rummaging in the front pocket of her apron. Seemingly finding what she was seeking, she slowly crouched down before Sam, uprooting at least two trees with the curve of her mighty butt and proudly presented him with something that Sam couldn't even hope to identify.

He stared at the mysterious object between her fingertips.

Green and smooth, it was round and kidney shaped. It looked no bigger than a nickel when compared to the huge fingers that grasped it, but in front of the brothers it was very nearly the size of Beauty's head.

The brothers stared at it, perplexed. They turned to each other with a shrug, then back to the unidentifiable green thing pinned between the giant fingertips.

"What the hell?" Dean squinted at it, brows furrowing as he tried to figure out what he was looking at.

Eventually it was Not-Bobby that spoke up.

"It's a bean, you idjits," he growled as he hovered between their clueless heads.

"A bean?"

The little faerie scowled, folding his stubby, hairy arms across his shimmering pink bodice. "Y'know, when someone gives you a gift, it's customary to say thank you," he grumbled; "not to stand there gawping at it like a pair of goddamn halfwits."

Ah.

"Yeah, It's great, thank you," Sam gushed expansively, looking up at the giantess' shy smile as he reached for the bean; "it's the best bean we've ever seen, uh, isn't it Dean?".

"Oh, well - uh, yeah," Dean joined in, squirming as his eyes darted furtively between Sam and Not-Bobby; "it's just what I've always wanted, thanks."

Not-Bobby rolled his eyes. Hovering over Beauty's head, he subtly mimed someone being violently sick.

"Look," Sam smiled up over the giant bean; "when we're travelling to Grimwald's castle, it'd be great to have you with us - we could really use your help, would you like to come with us?"

The Giantess looked down at Sam then back across the terrible expanse of the Bleaklands to the foreboding hulk of the castle on the distant horizon; an ugly black silhouette against a baleful red sunset.

Eventually, she turned back to look down at Sam, her pretty blue eyes swimming with tears. Her blonde tresses tumbled over her shoulder as she shook her head.

Sam nodded in acceptance as he effected his warmest, most sympathetic smile. He stood and watched silently as the giantess turned, giving him one last lingering look and strode back into the forest.

"What's wrong with her?" Dean asked, with a shrug.

"Don't know," Sam replied absently; but I think it's something to do with Grimwald."

He stood in thought for a moment; "I don't know why," he mused quietly, "but I think she's terribly, painfully lonely."

"I'm so gonna enjoy ganking this asshole," Dean rubbed his hands together with glee.

xxxxx

Sam looked down. In his ponderings he had all but forgotten he was clutching a giant bean. "Um, what are we gonna do with this?"

"Search me," Dean shrugged.

"Perhaps she thought it would feed us," Sam reflected, "I mean it doesn't exactly look like there's bountiful sources of food out there. Perhaps this is what giants eat?"

"Oh no, don't you get any ideas about eatin' it," Dean muttered darkly; "otherwise me an' Beauty will be ridin' upwind for the rest of the trip." He patted the black horse's neck and she butted him playfully, snorting an agreement.

Not-Bobby groaned; "you two dingbats don't read many friggin' faerie tales, do you?"

He was greeted by two vacant faces.

"We take it with us," the little faerie snorted, his stern expression indicating that the instruction was non-negotiable; "the mule can carry it – just make sure the greedy bastard don't eat it.

xxxxx

Sam tightened the strap on the mule's bean-stuffed pannier, "right let's go," he announced.

"Oh no," Not-Bobby replied; "it doesn't look far, but that's a days ride across to the castle. We'll be travelling across virtually impenetrable marshland and crumbling rockface; it's gonna be hard on us all." He bobbed up and down on a passing breeze as he paused to allow his words to register with the Winchesters, "so you're both gonna sleep," he snorted. "While you're sleepin'," he continued before either brother had a chance to protest; "the horses are gonna rest and I'm gonna see what provisions I can rustle up.

Dean wilted. "Please," he sighed; "no more freakin' apples."

Not-Bobby grunted non-commitally as he watched the Winchesters pull their roll-mats down from the mule's haunches and settle down on the forest floor.

xxxxx

When Dean opened bleary, sleep-muzzed eyes several hours later, the first thing that appeared in his line of vision was a pile of gleaming red apples.

"Right that's it," he groaned; "gonna puke. Don't say I didn't warn you ..."

xxxxx

tbc


	13. Chapter 13

Not-Bobby hadn't been exaggerating when he said crossing the Bleaklands would be an ordeal.

He hadn't been specific about it being a wet, cold, tiring, stinking, miserable, frustrating, joint-aching, mosquito-bitten, soul-destroying ordeal, but both Winchesters agreed that an ordeal was an ordeal regardless of the details.

For hour after hour, under tumultuous churning skies the little band laboured across barren crumbling rockface, dusty and dry as ash, then through choking, fetid marshland. Both Dean and Sam had dismounted, walking beside their exhausted mounts to give the struggling horses a better chance of maintaining their footing through the mire. Rancid steam belched up around them as they placed each careful footstep, trying to keep on solid ground, but more often than not finding only stinking mud and rotting ichor. Around them, lonely willo-the-wisps danced and fluttered; tiny flickering beacons that blinked eerily through the gloom then vanished, disorienting and teasing the beleaguered travellers even further.

Yes, ordeal summed it up nicely.

xxxxx

Patting Beauty's straining, sweat-foamed neck as she stumbled forward, Dean lovingly encouraged her onward toward the ugly dark blot on the horizon that was their target; the one place they had to get to; a place where no-one in their right mind would want to go.

Darting from side to side, Not-Bobby was clearly nervous as he flittered along behind the brothers, scanning every inch of the featureless expanse that surrounded them.

"Y'okay there?" Dean glanced across to the little faerie as he bumbled along beside them.

"Yeah, friggin' peachy;" Not-Bobby replied humourlessly; "keep goin', the sooner we get out o' this crap-hole the better.

Dean nodded silently in understanding. Not-Bobby had prepared the brothers for the horrors that they could well face in their trek across the Bleaklands; foul, deadly creatures such as spider-ghouls or prowling Bleakwolves – he would be lying if he said he wasn't scared too.

Sam had readied every blade, weapon, talisman and incantation the little party had to hand. The mule's rear end was bristling with more armaments than an anti-tank division. If the brothers were going down, they would make sure they went down fighting.

xxxxx

Dean cringed as he put a foot forward and it squelched into something revoltingly soft, submerging him up to his hips into the mire.

"Ah, hell," he groaned, face crumpled into a grimace of disgust; "I've got goddam swamp ooze up my ass!"

Not Bobby buzzed around his ear; "jus' be thankful you ain't ended up like him," he snorted, gesticulating toward a rotting, armour-clad cadaver that had surfaced with a bubbling rumble from under the peaty bog; "that poor sap's got swamp ooze in more places than just his ass."

Dean sighed, leaning on Sam as he fought to extricate his leg from the sucking mud. Eventually the errant limb emerged with a wet slurp and Dean shuddered as he felt cold lumpy mud inside his breeches trickle down his leg.

"Ah man, that's nasty," he groaned; "I'm never gonna get laid now. I bet Prince Charming never rescued Rapunzel covered in friggin' swamp slime."

They ploughed forward for another hour, breathless and frustrated. It was Sam that eventually stopped.

"Hey Dean, d'y hear that?"

"Hear what?" panted Dean; "all I can hear is the princess tellin' me she doesn't wanna be rescued by some dude who smells like the mens' room in a Klingon warship."

Sam waved a hand briefly to silence his brother.

And that's when they heard it. A distant, threatening drone.

"What the hell's that?"

The brothers glanced at each other, brows furrowed with concern as they tried to tune in on the faint hum.

Their concentration was disturbed by a small voice beside them.

"Oh crap!"

They both turned to Not-Bobby. "Oh crap?" prompted Sam; "care to elaborate?"

The faerie's little glowing face paled; "oooh … shit!"

"Not helping dude," Dean snapped.

Not-Bobby scraped a tiny hand over his bearded face; "swamp goblins," he gasped.

Dean blinked, trying not to register that the buzzing was growing noticeably louder.

"Swamp goblins?" he repeated hesitantly.

Not-Bobby nodded.

"It's got to be," he burbled, panic-stricken; "I thought they were all dead; everyone did. Fact is, no-one's seen a goddamn swamp goblin for years. Word was that Grimwald killed them all with his dark magic," he hesitated, glancing in the direction of the buzz which was rapidly becoming a whooshing roar.

"What if he didn't kill them? What if he used his dark magic to imprison them for his own use?"

Sam shook his head in confusion; "what're you saying?" he snapped.

"I'm guessing Grimwald's being extra cautious with all these rescue attempts, and released these things to defend the castle, I wouldn't mind betting they accounted for a few of your predecessors – LOOK!" He pointed to the far horizon, which looked even darker than usual, suddenly obscured by a murderous black cloud which churned and writhed as it approached.

"I'm guessing these things aren't good?" Dean grunted, not taking his eyes from the approaching menace.

Not-Bobby shook his head. "They eat humans," he stated bluntly.

"What?" Sam snapped, wide eyed.

"They hunt in packs, like freakin' pirahnas, they're voracious," Not-Bobby stared at the brothers distraught; "I'm sorry," he stammered; "I really thought they were all dead."

"What about you and the horses?" Dean stammered hesitantly.

Not-Bobby shook his head; "they won't touch us, we're faerie – we're poison to them."

Dean could feel his heart racing as he turned to Sam. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the black cloud approaching, close enough now that they could actually see it as a swarm, an approaching plague; thousands of tiny black bodies in one fluid mass bringing only the promise of death and destruction.

"What have we got?" Dean gasped, watching as Sam turned, rifling through the weapons.

"I don't know," Sam stammered, "we got swords, pikes, axes, quarterstaffs, nothing that's good for dealing with a goddamn swarm."

"We'll just have to pick up the pace," Dean snapped, "try to get to the castle and under cover before they get to us."

Not-Bobby fluttered round them, his tiny calloused hands wringing the pink ruffles of his dress; "no, you can't outrun them that far," he gasped; "not a chance, you'll have to get down into the swamp and try to hide from them."

The buzzing was becoming a roar; the thundering, drilling dissonance of a thousand flapping wings that bore down on the Winchesters, vibrating through their chests, driving their hearts into a rapid sickening cadence. Over everything, they could now hear shrieking and chittering sounds that made their blood run cold

Grabbing an axe out of the Mule's overstuffed saddlebag, Dean threw it toward Sam as he grabbed a vicious looking halberd, and moved to stand shoulder to shoulder with his brother.

Flapping and fluttering, Not-Bobby darted back and forth in front of the Winchesters, forming an, admittedly very insubstantial, barrier between the Winchesters and the oncoming storm.

Within moments, a swarm of tiny dark bodies engulfed them. Their world became a wheeling, thrashing melee of spindly black wings and long, spidery arms with needle-sharp claws that grasped at the Winchesters, scratching and pinching and tearing ...

Flailing blindly, the Winchesters' weapons scythed uselessly through the swarm.

Eventually, seeing no way out from the clutches of this shrieking, lashing onslaught, Dean threw his weapon to the ground, and lunged toward his brother, forcibly pushing him face down into the mud and hurling his own armour-clad body over Sam's prostrate form. He guessed at least his armoured backplate would form a barrier of sorts, however limited.

As they lay, gradually sinking into the foul mire and fighting to keep their heads above the suffocating ooze, they felt tiny claws and teeth ripping through their clothing, tearing into exposed skin and tangling painfully into hair. Through the merest slit of his squinting eyes, Dean could see a tiny pink dot whirling through the maelstrom as Not-Bobby fought in vain to protect his charges. Further back he could see Beauty, rearing and plunging frantically, wall-eyed with fury as she lashed out, stamping some of the tiny creatures underfoot.

Beside her the mule had found a patch of satisfyingly salty moss to munch on.

xxxxx

Then, as suddenly as it began, the swarm lifted. The chittering and shrieking turned into gasping chokes and the creatures recoiled, wheeling back up into the air and retreating haphazardly .

As the threat gradually diminished, the dazed, bloodied Winchesters looked up blearily through the sudden calm.

"Thanks dude," Sam groaned breathlessly, elbowing Dean in the throat as he tried to roll over; "now geddoff me, you're heavy enough without the freakin' armour."

Slowly, shakily, Dean stumbled to his feet, reaching out a bloodied hand within a shredded glove to help his mud-coated brother up. Once he was satisfied Sam was upright and likely to stay that way, he strode over to Beauty and threw his arms around her neck; "Baby, you're awesome," he gushed as she whittered softly into his neck.

Not-Bobby stared in disbelief; "how… what the …?"

Dean's blood-streaked face was frozen in confusion as he glanced out from under Beauty's chin to Sam's mud-caked silhouette, and the little baffled figure bobbing up and down between them.

"I don't get it," Not-Bobby mumbled to himself; "you two are humans, those sonsofbitches eat humans." He glanced up toward Sam, standing hunched and weary, barely recognisable beneath a masque of drying green mud. "They eat humans," he mused absently, "they can't eat faeries, so why …"

Suddenly a shaky smile crossed the little faerie's face. "That's it, holy crap; that's it!"

"What's it?" Dean asked absently, glumly examining his mud-coated armour, and watching in dazed resignation as the tattered sleeve of his gambeson gave up the attempt to stay in one piece and slid meekly down to his wrist.

"Apples," Not-Bobby announced proudly.

"Right …" Dean cast a sideways glance at Sam, circling his temple with his finger; "don't you think you're a bit obsessed with these darn apples?"

Not-Bobby huffed impatiently. "Listen idjit, those 'darn' apples just saved your freakin' life."

He hesitated to see if the penny was about to drop but it stayed well and truly put.

Rolling his eyes, Not-Bobby continued; "those apples that you've been whinin' about were all created with my faerie magic, and you've eaten so many of them, they've tainted you," he beamed in delight; "don't you see? You taste more like a faerie than a human."

"You're poison to them," the little faerie finished triumphantly, crossing his stocky little arms across his chest.

"I taste … like a … faerie …?" Dean's blood-streaked nose wrinkled in disgust; "you have no idea how wrong that sounds, on so many freakin' levels."

Sam scraped back the congealed mess that was once his hair with bloody hands; "yeah, whatever dude, I think we might have more important things to think about right now, you can save your macho ego crisis for later."

xxxxx

A final push saw the dishevelled, filthy band finally standing at the foot of the great black-stone castle. Close up, it looked no less daunting and unwelcoming that it did when it was ten miles away.

Fifty feet high, its towering lichen-pocked walls soared above them.

A brief circumnavigation of the building revealed one massive iron portcullis gate and no other apparent points of entry or exit.

They stood and pondered.

Sam absently scratched where his matted hair had dried into a solid brick as he stared up at the imposing wall and tried hard to ignore Dean standing next to him rearranging his damp and chafing groin.

Dean only ceased his enthusiastic explorations when Not-Bobby smacked him upside the head; "are ya gonna stand there like a friggin dork twiddlin' your bits, or are we gonna get our asses inside that place?"

Dean glared at Not-Bobby, rubbing his head with his sleeveless arm.

"Well, I'm guessing we can't just walk up, knock on that door, an' invite ourselves in for coffee an' cakes," Dean snorted, turning to Sam; "so unless you've got a fifty-foot ladder secreted up that thing's ass," he grunted, pointing at the mule, "I'm all out of ideas."

xxxxx

tbc


	14. Chapter 14

Standing in the stinking mud at the foot of the tower, the brothers craned their necks upwards staring at the seemingly endless expanse of ugly, black lichen-scarred bricks that soared like Jacob's Ladder into an angry grey sky.

"We can't climb it," mused Dean, scanning the hulking tower from side to side and top to bottom; "nothing to attach the rope to."

Sam shook his head solemnly and rubbed the back of his neck in frustration, "what if Grimwald knows we're here?" He mused, glancing around cautiously; "perhaps he knows those swamp goblins didn't kill us."

Behind them, Beauty stood patiently with Not-Bobby hovering above her back. They stared at the two deliberating Winchesters for several moments before the little faerie swooped down to stand on the mare's head; "are that pair for real?" he muttered in exasperation.

Beauty snorted in agreement and switched her tail irritably.

Eventually, Not-Bobby couldn't hold his frustration any longer.

"Have you pair of numbskulls finished?"

Two pairs of enquiring eyes turned to look round at the little figure who bobbed over the air currents in front of them, his huffed out cheeks gradually turning as pink as his dress.

"The freakin' bean, y'idjits," he snorted; "plant the goddamn bean … jeez, I gotta think of everything around here?"

A glance passed between the brothers before the flash of inspiration hit.

"BEANSTALK!" Sam grinned, nudging Dean in the shoulder; "Dean, the bean," he grinned pointing at the mule's stuffed saddlebag; we plant ourselves a beanstalk – grow our own ladder." He turned to their little eye-rolling companion as Dean began to rummage through the mule's baggage; "hey, Bobb ... uh ... faerie ... um ... whatever, you're a genius," he gushed.

"Compared to you two yahoos, that friggin' mule's a genius," Not-Bobby snorted, noticing that said mule, clearly far too idle to be affronted, didn't even bother glancing up from a sparse patch of gorse it had discovered.

xxxxx

An hour had passed when Dean wiped his sweaty brow and patted down the marshy peat with the back of the shovel that he had lifted from the mule's laden haunches. Blowing out a long breath, he turned to Sam. "Why the heck am I, the brave and handsome knight, diggin' goddamn holes an' burying beans while my squire stands and watches?"

Sam shrugged, "Because you're so good at it, Sir-I'm-Scared-Of-My-Horse-And-Got-My-Butt-Fondled -By-A-Tree."

"Kiss it," snorted Dean; "I'm not scared of my horse." He hesitated, glancing slyly at Beauty; "well, not all the time."

They stood and stared idly down at the ground where the bean lay buried, totally failing to notice Not-Bobby who along with Beauty was slowly backing away from their immediate vicinity.

"So," sighed Dean; "how long do we waaaaaaAAAAAIIIIIIIIII …"

Not-Bobby patted Beauty's softly arched neck and watched as the enormous beanstalk, preceded by a menacing rumble, erupted from the earth like an Apollo launch and propelled both Winchesters, clinging white-knuckled to it's unravelling vines, skyward.

"Not long," he grunted as the two figures' terrified cries receded into the ether.

xxxxx

Clinging grimly to the massive uncoiling stem of the beanstalk, Dean's legs wheeled furiously as he tried to gain some purchase on the fibrous vines which coiled and writhed like a living thing, growing and multiplying beneath him. He had given up screaming now; every fibre of his being was concentrating on the iron grip which was all that stood between him and a lethal nose-dive into the swamp a dizzyingly long way beneath him.

A little way below him, Sam was clinging, bug-eyed and open-mouthed, to the broadening stem, arms and legs wrapped around it like a baby koala clinging to its mother.

He felt giant leaves beginning to sprout all over the beanstalk, bursting open like a mass of parachutes around him, under him and above him, until before long all sight of Sam was lost, hidden behind a lush green wall of giant leaves. Dean observed, however, he could no longer see the ground and how far away it was either, so it wasn't all bad.

xxxxx

Sam was not going to open his eyes again, not ever. When he'd opened them a few seconds ago, he was hovering fifty million miles off the ground, clinging to a giant creeper with Dean's ass in his face. Not a good place to be on all counts.

What he was going to do, however, if he ever managed to get back onto solid earth without breaking every bone in his body, was that he was going to find Not-Bobby, the little pink sparkly asshole and stamp on him.

Then he was going to peel the resulting pink pancake up off the ground and fling it, frisbee-like, as far away as he possibly could; far enough that he would never have to see it again.

Not-Bobby was going to regret not warning him and Dean that this damn freaky beanstalk was going to explode in their faces.

That is of course assuming he didn't plummet to a terrifying and unthinkably messy death beforehand, because that would, really, just royally suck.

xxxxx

For one beautiful moment, it felt as if the beanstalk might have stopped growing. Sam's stomach was making a concerted effort to catch up with the rest of him, and the rushing air had stopped whooshing past his face, stilling to a soft breeze.

"How far up are we?" he yelled up to Dean.

"No. Freakin. Idea." Dean replied through clenched teeth, face mashed against the stalk.

Sam sighed; ah yes, the brave and handsome knight who's scared to death of heights ...

Cautiously pushing a giant leaf to one side, Sam tried to ascertain some idea of their position, and promptly wished he hadn't. Okay, make that the faithful squire who's not too keen on heights too.

The dark castellated top edge of the tower wall was way, way below them; nothing more than a tiny black circle etched against the dank, grey landscape of the Bleaklands and Sam found himself, frozen in shock peering helplessly down into the grim, dilatory courtyard within the tower, its tiny building and fences set out below him like a child's toy.

His stomach which had struggled so manfully to regain its rightful place, quivered and dropped helplessly into his boots with a pathetic little plop.

"Dean," he croaked; "we must be at least a hundred feet up."

"Don't. Wanna. Know," Dean ground out hoarsely, burying his face way further under his arm than should be normal.

Brief moments passed, during which Sam pondered the brothers' next move, until they heard an ominous creak.

Sam froze; "Dean, tell me that was your back …"

Reluctantly extricating his face from his armpit, Dean was about to reply when another long, groaning creak juddered through the beanstalk, preceding a violent lurch sideways. Sam swallowed sharply, and suddenly had the awful feeling that any decision about their next move was about to be made for them.

"Sam, what the hell …?" Dean gasped, as the great beanstalk listed sideways. Scrambling to maintain his grip, Dean felt himself slipping ominously down the stem, his progress only halted as his ass and Sam's face made violent contact.

"It's toppling over," Sam mumbled through a mouthful of grubby leather breeches; "it can't hold up its own weight."

Listing further and further over, the beanstalk eventually came to rest against the wall of the tower, buckling over the ramparts until its top half began to sag down into the Castle's courtyard.

Fighting the relentless pull of gravity, the panic-stricken Winchesters struggled to maintain their grip as the beanstalk subsided further and further down into the castle, sending them plunging down its length, tangling through branches and bouncing off explosively sprouting beans, grasping and clinging on to anything that came to hand in a frantic effort to slow their descent; foliage, beans, curling tendrils … even each other.

Finally, the top end of the beanstalk had dropped as far as it could drop and came to a gently swaying halt, hanging limply down the inside wall of the tower, leaving the dazed and breathless Winchesters dangling helplessly from it by their various bruised and battered body parts, about ten feet above the ground.

Yep, Sam pondered as he hung upside down by one ankle from a curling leaf-bud that was bigger than him, he was not just going to stamp on Not-Bobby, that little sparkly pink dick, he was going to freakin'-well dance on him; perform a jig of utter joy as he relished the sweet, resonant crunch of soon-to-be-flat faerie beneath the sole of his size thirteen boot.

His happy imaginings were rudely interrupted by a snap and a heavy rustle right above his foot and Dean tumbled out from underneath a cluster of enormous beans, loosing a yelped oath as he plummeted past Sam, dragging the two of them down into a final rapid and painful descent to the ground.

Rolling onto his back, Sam let out a groaning gasp as the full weight of his great lunk of a brother, complete with armour, landed on top of him, no doubt snapping every one of Sam's ribs in the process, and rolled over, off of Sam and straight into a steaming pile of horse dung.

"Ah, crap," Dean sighed, panting harshly as his shocked body tried to take stock of the ordeal it had just endured; "I bet this never happened to Sir Galahad."

xxxxx

tbc


	15. Chapter 15

Clambering shakily to their feet, the Winchesters dusted themselves off and cautiously scanned their surroundings. In doing so, the first thing they noticed about the interior of the tower was that it looked every bit as grim and foreboding as the exterior.

The round courtyard in which they stood was bare and cobbled, an ugly, ill-maintained ring of barren space shrouded in perpetual darkness by the shadow of the towering wall that surrounded it. On their other side, the hulking, moss-strewn wall of the crumbling castle keep starkly demonstrated their next obstacle.

However, there was something else around them that had captured the Winchesters' attention.

Dotted around the courtyard were statues; not many, but enough to draw the attention of the two interlopers. Strange, grotesque statues of armoured men, all depicted cowering, recoiling; arms raised above their heads as if to deflect a blow; cringing as if their likenesses were captured at a moment of excrutiating pain or crushing terror.

Dean stared at the disturbing figures, speaking to Sam without tearing his eyes away from them; "I've said it before Sam, this Grimwald dude is one sick puppy."

Nodding silently, Sam turned, continuing with his scan of the environment, and froze with a squeak of shock.

Behind him stood another statue, this one a massive, towering monolith. Sam's saucer-wide eyes were level with its knee; beneath the carved contours of its breeches, its colossal calf muscle alone was thicker than Sam's chest.

"Holy crap Dean," croaked Sam; "look at this!"

Dean's head twitched in a double take as he spun round to see the huge limbs planted in the ground.

"sonofa …" craning his head upwards, Dean squinted through the meagre sunlight, but the giant statue's upper half was too distant to be able to make out any discernible features.

"D'y reckon that's supposed to be Grimwald?" he mused, glancing across at Sam who was still staring in open-mouthed bewilderment at the pumpkin-sized kneecap; "these freakin' megalomaniac douchebags love their giant statues and portraits of themselves."

Sam shrugged; "Don't know; our so-called Faerie Godmother should be able to tell us."

"That's a point," replied Dean, spinning back round and scanning the courtyard again; "where the hell is the little asshat?"

"No idea," snorted Sam; "perhaps he's waiting for us to open the gate?"

Dean shrugged, "he could just fly over the wall, surely?"

"Don't know, dude, but whatever," Sam grunted, "looks like we're dealing with this asshole on our own."

xxxxx

"… and that suits me just fine …"

The brothers spun round on hearing the unfamiliar voice and stood, frozen in shock to see a figure standing beside them.

Thin to the point of cadaverous, the figure's skin was grey, with a sickly yellow patina that made him look like he was made of ancient parchment. His ragged black cloak hung limply over a threadbare black doublet and hose that looked as grim and unwholesome as its wearer.

"Grimwald!" the Winchesters growled in unison.

Dean's hand tightened around the hilt of his sword.

"I don't know how you managed to get past my swamp faeries," Grimwald began, his narrow, bloodless lips stretching into a smirk, "but then, that's what I get for putting my trust in faeries; mindless, fickle creatures, all of them."

Suddenly, far from wanting to stamp on Not-Bobby, Sam felt a surge of anger and leapt to defend their strange little friend.

"Only to people who are too stupid to appreciate them," he snapped in response, curling his lip in disgust.

"No matter," the emaciated figure shrugged; "the swamp goblins' Queen is a 'guest' in my dungeons," his lipless smirk stretched into a cold, humourless smile; "of course, as they have failed in their duty toward me, she dies tomorrow."

"Their duty?" Dean snapped; "you were forcing them to kill to order by threatening their Queen?"

"Of course," Grimwald's sneer was riddled with cold malice; "there is a general belief that these things are fierce hunters," he began; "far from it actually. They're idle, stupid creatures, scavengers by nature; they don't like to kill and will only hunt as an absolutely last resort. They live on carrion and manage quite adequately on the remains of the occasional traveller who comes to grief across the Bleaklands."

"So I needed to provide them with a little 'incentive' to ensure their help."

"You're a freakin' twisted bastard," Sam growled.

"I prefer resourceful," Grimwald's sneer broadened to the point that it made Sam shudder; "but anyway, we digress. You're not interested in a mob of faerie vultures are you? You're here for the princess," he continued casually.

His eyes narrowed as Dean flinched at his words.

"Ah yes, the princess," he speculated aloud; "congratulations, you made it further than most of her prospective rescuers, but gentlemen, I'm afraid here is where your journey ends."

"I don't think so, you freakin' sonofabitch," Dean snarled, pulling his sword cleanly from its sheath, and in one fluid movement swinging it above his head with violent fury, ready to strike a killer blow.

xxxxx

It all happened in seconds; so quickly that Sam was hardly able to rationalise what he'd seen.

As Dean's sword was sweeping over his shoulder on a direct route to Grimwald's head, the sorcerer produced a wand that looked to be little more than a gnarled twig from inside his cuff, pointing it directly toward Dean's chest.

Sam recoiled violently as Dean seemed to explode into a burst of light, letting out a terrible strangled howl that would haunt Sam forever.

When the light cleared, Sam blinked the tears out of his stinging eyes and stared in horror at what stood in Dean's place.

A statue.

Of Dean.

His arms stretched above his head, hands still gripping the hilt of a now-stone sword; his back arched midway through the effort of the powerful swing, but his body twisted grotesquely as if he'd recoiled from the force of the sorcerer's terrible magic.

But it was his face that Sam couldn't take his eyes from; frozen into a pebble-eyed, open-mouthed mask of horrified shock.

"What … you …" Sam stammered.

"… turned him to stone," Grimwald replied calmly; "yes, that's right, I believe the technical term is 'petrify'."

"He can join my collection of other knights who came this far," he added humourlessly.

Sam wheeled round, staring at all the statues as he realised that's why they were all so grotesque, so twisted and pained. They hadn't been carved like that at all; it was the position their body was thrown into when the same evil magic had turned them to stone.

Sam panted breathlessly; his fear and rage formed a potent and dizzying cocktail that sent his heart racing faster and faster until he felt his vision dimming, his legs beginning to buckle beneath him.

"Turn him back;" He roared; "c'mon asshat, do it; do it now." Sam stumbled backwards, panting harshly as he tried to regain some control; "because if you don't I swear, I'll tear you apart."

"No you won't," Grimwald replied levelly; "firstly, you're only a squire and you're unarmed."

The sneer made a reappearance across a face so hardened by malice and cruelty it made Sam's blood run cold; "secondly, I have a little insurance; allow me to demonstrate …"

Leaning forward, Grimwald pointed his wand over Sam's shoulder at one of the statues behind them and a shrill screech emanated from its tip, cutting through the air. Sam stumbled backwards, clamping his hands over his ears as he clenched his teeth through the pain that drilled through his head like a skewer.

As the sound abruptly ceased, Sam dropped to his knees, his hands falling limply to his sides, and watched as the statue which had been the focus of the terrible sound continued to resonate, the vibrations ringing through it harder and harder until it exploded into a shower of tiny shards.

"For your information, that will be your knight's fate if you act toward me with anything other than unquestioning obedience," Grimwald stated flatly.

Sam stared in mute horror at the pile of dust and rubble that marked where the statue had once been.

"Now, tomorrow you will join me to attend the execution of the princess. I want you to bear witness to your knight's total and abject failure in his quest."

"Then, well, who knows. What use is a squire without his knight? The spider-ghouls out on the Bleaklands are hungry at this time of year, I'm sure they would appreciate some fresh meat." Grimwald's horrible smirk spoke of satisfaction, complete and lavish, but Sam couldn't help but notice that he was keeping his wand pointed squarely at Dean's stone figure as he spoke.

"On the other hand," the sorcerer mused aloud, "you and your knight make a handsome pair; I may petrify you along with him and display you both in the centre square of Impalia when that country is under my fightful rule."

Silently glaring past his adversary at the rank of guards who had suddenly assembled behind him, Sam trembled with rage. Although the brothers' cache of weapons were still in the saddlebags of the mule who was currently waiting outside the castle, Sam had armed himself with a knife which he had managed to keep hidden from unfriendly eyes. Thanks to Not-Bobby he was also armed with knowledge of incantations which would help to suppress all kinds of dark magic; but now, with the appearance of Grimwald's entourage, he had suddenly found himself outnumbered six against one.

He could try to fight; he was ready to fight, but it would only take one second. One second for Dean to be exploded into dust like that other poor bastard.

Sam knew that, from there, there would be no bringing Dean back. It was a chance Sam just couldn't afford to take.

Sam's shoulders slumped in defeat as the guards surrounded him, enclosing him in a serried ring of cold steel. He chanced a desperate look back to the forlorn statue of his brother before a sharp jab in the spine with the point of a halberd forced him forward toward a barred portcullis at the base of the castle keep.

Beyond it was only darkness.

xxxxx

tbc


	16. Chapter 16

Sam's heart pounded beneath his ribs, forcing him to draw in a deep breath. As he was escorted slowly toward the tower, his mind whirled, trying to think of ways to escape the clutches of Grimwald and his guards so that he could figure out some way to help Dean. Fight his way out? Make a break for it? Against five professional soldiers and a psycho with a magic statue-making wand, nothing was going to be easy.

He hesitated, still surrounded by a rank of threatening and distinctly unfriendly hardware, and faced the crumbling entrance to the castle keep, listening to its rotting portcullis clank and grind mournfully as it worked its funereal way upward.

That was the moment he first heard it.

A buzz; a continuous, droning buzz, growing louder and more threatening. It was so loud now, that it echoed in his ears, rattling his teeth and vibrating through his chest until he had to fight for breath.

Eventually, curiosity overcame him and he turned, defying the pikestaff that jabbed him in the back, goading him forward. He knew he had heard that sound before.

Almost instantly, the sky darkened as a swarm of swamp goblins poured over the ramparts way above them, a threatening and deadly living slick of destruction gushing down inside the tower and heading in an almost arrowhead formation toward Sam and his guards.

Diving to the ground, Sam curled into a ball wrapping his arms tightly over his head, trying to make himself as small as possible. The last thing he saw was a tiny flash of pink at the head of the swarm.

xxxxx

As he lay cowering on the ground, Sam became swept up in a swirling black maelstrom of rage and destruction around him, engulfed in a thrashing storm of terrible ripping, tearing sounds; the screams of helpless men, the chittering and shrieking frenzy of tiny meat-hungry creatures thrashing around him. Whipping claws slashed his arms and the back of his jerkin, tearing his clothes and skin as he tried to make himself even smaller, burrowing further down into dirt-encrusted cobbles, but deep down a small part of him knew that it wasn't him the creatures were aiming to harm.

Eventually the deafening assault receded, and Sam slowly uncurled, panting nervously and blinking into the light as he took stock of his surroundings; a bloodstained mudbath strewn with shredded clothes together with six broken and bloodied skeletons.

Sam took in the scene of devastation and carnage around him and noticed that one of them was still clutching a gnarled twig loosely in its skeletal fist.

Grimwald.

Cautiously sitting up, Sam inspected himself, relieved to find he was relatively unharmed. A little bit shredded, certainly; traumatised for life, quite probably; but mostly unharmed.

He flinched as Not-Bobby swooped down toward him; "the wand kid," he prompted urgently; "the wand – snap it."

Still in an ear-ringing daze, Sam reached for the wand, marvelling at how something so small and unimpressive could inflict such devastation and pulled it from between the bony fingertips, snapping it once, then once again just for good measure.

xxxxx

It happened far more rapidly than Sam expected.

After the first snap of the wand, Dean's harsh crumbling stone façade began to soften and warm, melting from the cold, lichen-pocked grey into the creamy flesh tones Sam was far more used to seeing in his brothers face. He crouched open-mouthed and watched an unyielding knot of stone on Dean's head as it slowly dissolved into his brother's familiar spiky sepia-brown thatch.

So mesmerised was Sam by watching the transformation that it took him a moment to realise that Dean's newly unpetrified knees were buckling beneath him and by the time Sam had galvanised himself to help his brother, Dean had dropped his sword and was subsiding face-first toward the grimy cobbles. Scrambling across the courtyard on his hands and knees, Sam was just able to catch Dean before he hit the ground and pulled him tight to his chest.

"Dude, hey Dean," Sam prompted, his voice breathless with urgency. He tapped his brother's face, relishing the soft warmth of the skin beneath his hands, "you okay? Talk to me man."

"Being turned to stone'll do that to ya," Not-Bobby sighed.

Coughing miserably, Dean's chest heaved as he struggled for breath beneath his heavy, muddied armour which Sam was working feverishly to remove.

"Breathe, c'mon man, breathe," Sam chanted as he sat, completely unaware of Not-Bobby hovering directly over his head, wringing his hands into the pink petals of his skirt in concern. Sam would never know how grateful he should have been that he never thought, at that moment, to look up. Tossing the armour aside, he rubbed Dean's back; patiently and carefully supporting him through the apparently arduous ordeal of his transformation back from statue to living, breathing human.

Sam's attention remained fixed on his brother; largely disregarding the other previously petrified men who were now dotted around the courtyard in various degrees of consciousness. The only figure Sam had noticed was the great stone giant whose mammoth shadow loomed over them, and who was now a great very much alive giant, leaning crumpled against the wall rubbing his head. Sam had already made a mental note to keep well out of the way of those giant feet.

He smiled as he felt Dean's eyelashes flutter into his neck.

"Y'okay there?"

He wasn't sure if the response he got was a nod or a shudder. Given that neither brother had ever been turned to stone before, he didn't exactly have any valuable experience to draw upon to gauge how well Dean was doing; he decided to work on the basis that any response at all was a plus point.

xxxxx

"What happened?" Sam eventually tore his attention away from Dean to ask Not-Bobby.

"I went back to find the Swamp Goblins," the little faerie began with a shrug; "I guessed Grimwald was holding something over them. They're not the friendliest of characters, and they can be darn aggressive, but they're not indiscriminate killers. As I'm a faerie, I hoped I could get them on my side."

"Looks like you did," Sam replied over a deep sigh of relief as Dean wriggled in his arms attempting to sit up.

Not-Bobby nodded, a broad smile spreading across his bearded face as Dean glanced silently at him, blinking vacantly and rubbing his head. "When I spoke to their elder, he told me Grimwald had their queen held prisoner and was buying their alliegence with her life." The little faerie paused in thought for a moment; "I told them that you boys were intendin' on doin' away with Grimwald and freeing the princess, and so you could free their queen too. They just had to trust me."

"I guess you've got an honest face;" Sam smiled.

"Not in this friggin' shape;" Not-Bobby replied with a grimace; "we're all faeries together; they'd trust my word over the word of a human any day."

"Sorry son, no offence," he added with a sheepish smile.

Sam turned his attention back to his brother; "hey, dude," he grinned, bolstered by seeing the colour returning to Dean's grimy cheeks; "how're you feeling?"

Dean opened a closed his mouth a couple of times, letting out a dusty cough before he actually managed to speak. "Feel like a freakin' train hit me," he mumbled blearily.

Sam smiled; "that's a start!"

He became aware of Dean fidgeting in his arms; "the horses Sam, let 'em in; wann' check they're okay," Dean croaked breathlessly, making repeated unsuccessful attempts to rise to his knees; "wann' see m'Beauty."

"But Dean …"

Groaning in defeat, Dean slumped against Sam's chest, treating his brother to his best 'don't argue bitch' face; the effect somewhat ruined by the smear of mud across his nose and the slightly crossed eyes.

xxxxx

Rising reluctantly to his feet, Sam turned and jogged over to the gate, throwing all his strength into releasing the portcullis. He stood aside, panting with exertion as the great rusting mechanism ratcheted and rumbled, lowering the drawbridge onto the ground outside the castle.

It had no sooner touched soil when a streak of mud-caked black thundered across the wooden bridge, barging Sam aside and heading unswervingly for Dean. Wheeling to a halt beside her knight, Beauty whittered softly into his shoulder.

As he walked back toward the happy reunion, Sam watched Dean's unco-ordinated arms reach up and shakily encircle Beauty's long arching neck.

Behind him, the mule trudged through the gateway, stopping to sample a patch of gorse beside the Castle keep. The fact that it had someone's disembodied thighbone sticking out of it didn't seem to discourage him at all.

"Hey dude," Sam gently pulled Dean away from the object of his affection, much to Beauty's obvious consternation, and pointed behind them; "see those random guys – and one random giant - over there? They're some of the other champions that made it this far; you're not gonna let them steal your glory are you?"

Dean blinked silently and shook his head; "not gonn' steal m'gory," he repeated vacantly.

Hauling Dean to his feet, Sam wrapped a long arm round his back, painfully aware that he was all that lay between Dean remaining upright or reverting to horizontal. On Dean's other side, Not-Bobby, grasped his elbow, a tiny gesture of moral support made more in spirit than any practical value.

Slowly and cautiously, the bold and handsome knight stumbled forward on legs like water, supported steadfastly by his loyal squire and his faerie godmother.

Sam looked up at the huge black bulk of the castle keep which stood before them, and urged Dean forward with gentle determination; "c'mon dude," he smiled; "you've got a princess to rescue."

xxxxx

tbc


	17. Chapter 17

I have no way of gauging the time here, but I do know that my incarceration has been so lengthy that it cannot be long before I must face the doom that Grimwald delights in taunting me with.

I know my father has not handed over his kingdom to Grimwald, nor would I have wanted him to. But I believe it is a decision that would have broken him, for now I, his only daughter, must die.

I will not lie and say the knowledge that my life will end at the hands of the evil, foul devil-man who imprisons me against my will does not disturb me, and I cannot believe my father would have done nothing. I am quite sure he has sent the finest and bravest champions that the noble shire of Impalia can offer to find me, but none have come to my rescue. I am left to speculate that they have all been defeated by the horrors of the Wildwoods and the Bleaklands; if they have, my heart breaks to think that it is my misfortune that has contributed to theirs.

It is dark in this dank and dismal oubliette. I have no windows, only the flame of a torch mounted on the wall to give me some light, but the smoke and heat makes the air fetid. I have no books, no company. There is nothing to distract me from the terrible fate that awaits me.

I am scared, so very scared.

But it would not do for a princess of the royal blood of Impalia to bewail her dire fate. I will not demean myself and satisfy Grimwald with theatrical displays of tears and rage.

All I have is hope. Hope diverts me, it keeps me sane.

xxxxx

I see him in my mind's eye, as clear as if I was looking at him through a crystalline dawn light. I see the face of my hope; the man who will be my saviour, my brave knight; my Prince Charming.

I see him walk through the door into this wretched hole.

He is tall and strong, with golden hair and broad shoulders atop a strong, deep chest which accommodates his brave and kindly heart.

I see his armour; it gleams with the radiance of a thousand suns and his clothing beneath it is elegant, yet simple; practical, yet fine. It traces the sinuous lines of his body like water flowing over marble.

I see his face and it is a work of art; a masterpiece of such beauty that I am left breathless to behold it; I feel somewhat faint and I have to lean against the wall to remain standing; it would not do to collapse into an undignified sprawl in front of this excellent man who has endured such hardship to free me. The sculpted contours of his handsome features have a certain ruggedness about them; a product of the warrior's life he has lead, but it lends character, not coarseness.

He approaches me and I gaze into his sea-storm eyes; hypnotised by the shimmering strands of gold, amber and green swirling within their depths.

I realise I am saved and in my relief, I give myself over to him, swooning into his powerful arms. He gathers me up with a tenderness that belies his obvious strength and carries me with great care to his steed, a magnificent animal, white as the foaming ocean and just as spirited.

His stride is long and elegant, but urgent, and as he walks, he speaks quietly to me. Deep and melodious, his voice is a healing song; a balm that soothes my shattered spirit. I lose myself in the honey-sweet tones and they carry me away from this terrible place as surely as his mighty arms do.

This unnamed man is my hope. An invention of my fear and despair, he is all that fills my hours as the unforgiving march of time carries me toward my end.

My end which is almost upon me. Oh, where is my brave knight?

xxxxx

The princess sighed, brushing her fingers listlessly through her blonde hair; its golden sheen dulled by smoke and neglect, and sat herself down on the bare cot which had been serving as a bed during her imprisonment.

She had barely been seated a moment when the heavy wooden door to the dungeon burst open and two dishevelled, mud-caked figures stumbled through it. One dropped to his knees, while the other fell over him with a yelp and faceplanted across the dungeon floor.

She leapt to her feet and stared down at the two figures. Their ragged clothes looked like they had been through a meat-grinder and, she observed, they seemed to have an odd shortage of sleeves.

They were liberally coated in mud, dust, and blood and brought with them an odour that made the oppressive redolence of her burning torch seem like a spring bouquet in comparison.

She blinked, and stood up, squaring her slender shoulders. She was a royal princess of Impalia, it would not do to be staring at such a spectacle with her mouth hanging open like the village idiot.

Were these Grimwald's guards, come to take her to her execution?

Sam clambered to his feet with a groan, hauling Dean upwards as he did. Turning to the princess, he delved deep into his limited knowledge of etiquette when in the presence of a royal personage and dipped clumsily down into a brief crouch which appeared to be an awkward hybrid of a bow and a curtsey

Dean shoved Sam irritably; "Watch where you're goin' in future, you clumsy great friggin' Sasquatch," he grunted before turning his attention to the princess.

"Uh, hi," he mumbled; "uh, pleased to meet you, your – uh, high-majest um – yeah ..."

He bowed stiffly, and the residual giddiness from his petrification ordeal almost pitched him over again; he was saved only by Sam grabbing him by the back of his breeches and dragging him back to his feet.

"Um, look," he pulled himself up to full height, and spread his arms toward the princess in a gesture of openness and support; "you're safe, don't worry; me an' my squire here, we're here to rescue you."

She glanced between the two men, still mute with stunned shock.

Hope, you have a very strange sense of humour.

xxxxx

tbc


	18. Chapter 18

As fairytale rescues went, it hadn't exactly been textbook.

Dean reflected as he lay cocooned by the four mahogany posts and voluminous voile hangings of the plush palace bed. Freshly bathed and resting gratefully, he listened to Sam behind the mass of silvery gauze, snoring gently as he slept in a servant's cot at the foot of Dean's bed with his feet hanging over the end.

He could just see through the miles of shimmering fabric that surrounded him and smiled when he spotted the faint pink glow of Not-Bobby perched quietly and restfully on top of the dresser in the corner.

Shifting on the plush samite sheets, Dean pulled the fur comforter up over him, and groaned as his bruised and abused body protested at the movement

Stupid freakin' giant.

xxxxx

Burrowing down into the biggest, squashiest pillow he had ever encountered, he stared up through the darkness at the ornate wooden canopy over his bed.

It was over.

Their great quest had been a resounding success; well, if you discounted the creepy pond horse and the tree grope and the troll snot and the swamp ooze and the whole freakin' statue fiasco. Details aside, Dean was rightly proud of himself and Sam.

Sure, the entry of the brave and noble Sir Dean and Sam, his loyal squire, into the princess' dungeon had been less of 'Prince Charming' and more of 'Prince Chucklehead', but after the initial shock of their less than spectacular entrance, princess Gwendoline hadn't been slow to show her immense gratitude to her rescuer, peppering him with joyful kisses and showing true royal dignity by barely even flinching at the eye-watering swamp stink that accompanied the brothers.

Sam, the ever-loyal squire, had also received a royal embrace for his trouble.

Now, thanks to their efforts, the beautiful Gwendoline, the woman who had haunted Dean's dreams, was alive and well, and back in the arms of her devoted father, the wise and kindly King Ulrich.

The wise and kindly and GENEROUS King Ulrich who had promised a celebration the like of which the noble shire of Impalia had never seen, and during which the nation's new heroes would be justly and lavishly rewarded.

What was even better was the discovery that the other men who had been un-petrified by Grimwald's demise were the Princess' brothers and their retainers; all present and correct apart from the poor manservant who had been exploded into smithereens.

Dean snorted at the thought of Grimwald; becoming Swamp Goblin chow was far too good for the evil asshole.

Princess Gwendoline's joy was a delight to behold and her effusive gratitude to her family's rescuer seemingly knew no bounds.

The precious sons King Ulrich had given up for dead were alive and well and upon their return to Impalia, had marched into the palace, singing the praises of the two brave strangers who were responsible for their freedom.

The noble Sir Dean, Knight of Winchester and his loyal Squire were heroes of legendary status and the grand realm of Impalia was going to honour them by partying like it had never partied before.

Dean heard the springs of the cot creak as Sam moved and a long pained groan sounded through the darkness.

Yep, all in all a job well done.

But giants still sucked.

Giantly.

xxxxx

Dean thought back to the moment he took the fair Gwendoline in his arms and accepted her gushing gratitude and promise of lavish reward with the awesome line, "Having you safe in my arms is reward enough." Yeah okay, he'd read that in a book once, but whatever, it still sounded cool.

Hand in hand, Dean and Gwendoline followed Sam out of the fetid darkness of the dungeon and into the labyrinth of tunnels beneath the castle. It was only moments before they met Not-Bobby, fluttering alongside the newly-freed swamp-goblin queen, all grey scaly skin, spidery limbs and bulbous yellow eyes.

Dean wasn't entirely sure if Princess Gwendoline's shocked gape was aimed more at the goblin queen who regarded them back with arrogant detachment, or the Winchesters' glittery little bearded faerie godmother dude.

"Don't think much of yours," he whispered to Not-Bobby before being herded onwards by Sam, mindful that Dean was more than capable of causing a diplomatic incident.

xxxxx

Of all the things Dean expected to find as they emerged, blinking, into the sunless daylight, a forty-foot giant on bended knee in front of him was not one of them.

Skidding to a violent halt on the slippery cobbles, he barrelled into Sam's back, almost pulling his adoring companion over.

"My noble lord," the Giant murmured; his quiet voice rumbling like distant thunder.

Dean stared up at the giant then turned, glancing behind him before he realised it was him the huge figure was addressing.

"Who, me?"

"I cannot thank you enough."

"Uh, you're welcome," Dean shrugged as he looked up at the enormous face; "happy to help."

It was, Dean noted, a surprisingly handsome face; not the typical warts and monobrow that he would have previously associated with giants. As he knelt before his liberator, the titan's thick dark hair tumbled down almost to his massive shoulders, and the warm hazel eyes that looked down on Dean and Sam were slanted and expressive.

Dean slowly turned to Sam; "Sam, is it just me or does he look a bit like …"

"Shut it Dean."

xxxxx

The giant began to speak. "I was the first champion to offer my services in the cause of our beloved Princess' freedom," he began hesitantly, glancing shyly at the smiling princess; "I crossed the Wildwoods and the Bleaklands without incident, but Grimwald tricked me; his men ambushed me from behind and he turned me to stone before I had a chance to retaliate."

"That doesn't surprise me," snorted Dean; "freakin' spineless dickwad."

"As you know, my friend, you maintain an awareness even when you are stone," the giant continued with a grimace; "and I knew that some weeks later, my wife crossed the Bleaklands to plead with Grimwald for my release."

"Wife?" the brothers asked in unison.

"Yes, my wife," the giant replied; "but Grimwald didn't turn her to stone."

"that's good …" Sam mumbled hesitantly; "isn't it?"

"I wish I could agree," the great man responded sadly; "instead, Grimwald struck her mute for daring to plead for my release and to prevent her asking for help, and then just to reinforce his displeasure, he told her that if she ever approached the castle again, he would shatter me to dust."

He sighed; "her punishment for trying to seek his pity was that she would never be able to speak to others; that she should know loneliness and isolation for the rest of her life. A fate made particularly painful in the knowledge that I was trapped and helpless in the castle grounds just out of her reach."

Dean scowled, glancing down at the princess who was shaking her head in silent sympathy as she snaked an arm around her shoulders. He smiled inwardly as she leaned into his touch.

"Your wife," asked Sam; "Is she blonde? pretty?" He winced at the futility of the question; it wasn't as if thirty foot women were exactly ten a penny.

"Yes," replied the giant hesitantly, tilting his head questioningly.

"We met her," Sam gasped; "we probably wouldn't have made it this far without her, she helped us through the Wildwoods," he continued.

"That would explain why she took to you," Dean leaned in and whispered toward Sam; "you're a mini-me of her husband!"

Sam ignored him insofar as that was possible.

"She lives?" the giant's eyes widened in awe.

"Yeah she does," Sam smiled warmly.

"Looks good too," added Dean with an approving nod.

Bowing his mighty head, the great man pulled in a deep breath and a solitary tear rolled down his nose, splashing onto the ground and soaking the brothers' feet as if someone had emptied a bucket of water over them.

"How can I thank you enough, my friends?"

"No need," Dean grinned. "I'm a bold and noble knight, helping the good guys; it's what I do." He gestured with a subtle nod to the princess who stood smiling, clinging to her rescuer as if her very life depended upon it.

xxxxx

"You are returning to Impalia?"

Dean, Sam and Gwendoline all nodded their confirmation toward the giant.

"Allow me to help you," he continued; "I can cross the Bleaklands in a fraction of the time it will take you, and no trifling spider ghoul or bleak wolf will attack something of my size."

Before the brothers had a chance to debate, they found themselves, together with the princess, being gently lifted within huge calloused hands and deposited into one of the deep poachers pockets which adorned the front of the giant's woodsmans jacket.

Smiling, the huge figure turned and stooped to pick up the two princes and their small entourage who had been hovering nervously behind him listening in silent fascination to the conversation, depositing them in two more pockets which circled his hips and the back of his coat.

"Beauty!" Dean shouted in alarm as he peered over the worn fabric edge of the pocket; "what about my Beauty?"

Gwendoline looked up at him expectantly.

"Oh, uh – sorry not you," Dean replied; "I meant my horse …" he choked and inwardly died just a little bit; "I mean, not that you're not beautiful because, I mean, you are but … my horse, see, I call her Black Beauty because she's, well, obviously, black and she's kinda …" he tailed off meeky as the princess giggled, and reached up to plant a kiss on his lips, effectively silencing him.

Sam rolled his eyes, "and my mule," he pleaded; "we can't go without my mule.".

The giant nodded amiably and stooped, nauseously tipping his passengers forward as he reached down and picked up Beauty with no more effort than if he were picking up a cat. She whinnied indignantly at the humiliation, but apparently knew better than to argue.

Raising himself back upright, their gigantic friend scanned the courtyard carefully; "Where is your mule, my friend?"

"Just look for something edible," sighed Sam.

Spying a suspiciously quivering bush in the far corner of the courtyard, the giant strode over to it, unsurprised to find it rapidly disappearing between the mule's massive brown teeth; "come here my fine fellow," he chuckled, "I can take you somewhere to find much more splendid fare, deserving of such a hero."

Gathering the fat mule under his free arm, the giant and his bemused passengers set off over the Bleaklands; Not-Bobby buzzing cheerfully round his head, and left the haunting ruin of the castle to the swamp goblin queen and her subjects.

xxxxx

Several hours later, with the Bleaklands behind them, Sam was becoming increasingly uncomfortable sharing such a cramped and unsubstantial space with the princess and Sir Friggin' Mighty Hero who were busy cementing their friendship way too enthusiastically for Sam's liking.

He stole a glance over the edge of the crowded pocket and his heart leapt as he saw a familiar figure standing on the edge of the Wildwoods, her blonde tresses fluttering in the breeze.

The giantess was waiting for them.

Sam heard the giant's gasp above him as he spied his beloved, and felt him stoop to gently place the horses on the ground, before quickening his pace. A lump of pure joy caught in Sam's throat as he thought about the giants' happy reunion.

They ran toward each other, arms outstretched.

Then Sam really thought about their reunion.

Oh … CRAP!

The two mighty beings fell into each others' arms with a force that shook the trees around them, embracing as if they could never let go.

They didn't hear the three pained groans that rose up from between their entwined bodies.

xxxxx

Dean felt his eyelids begin to droop as sleep beckoned. Yep, on the plus side he had at least managed to get a hell of a lot closer to the beautiful princess than he ever could have hoped at this stage in proceedings, but …

Giants still sucked.

xxxxx

tbc


	19. Chapter 19

"Hey Dean?"

Sam was sitting up on his cot, studying the enchanted book that began their whole adventure, when Dean's sleep-tousled head eventually appeared between the voluminous hangings around his four poster bed.

He inelegantly untangled the rest of his body from behind the miles of shimmering muslin and clambered out to sit on the low cot beside Sam, resting his elbows on his bare legs with a long, loud yawn.

"It's like sleepin' inside a friggin' wedding dress," he snorted.

Sam huffed a quiet laugh in response.

"Whatd'y want anyway?" Dean asked.

"This," Sam replied, passing the book to Dean; "look."

"Not-Bobby told us the ending would be written when we finished the story; we went on the quest, killed the villain, saved the princess, saved the kingdom, and it's all here in this book, except …" His words tailed off as he watched Dean peering intently down at the book, squinting myopically through the residual fog of a deep sleep.

"Except what?" he asked.

"Except," Sam replied; "there's still no ending to the story." He turned over the final page on the book and showed it to Dean.

Head tilting enquiringly, Dean's brow furrowed in confusion as he saw that the book's final page was, indeed, completely blank.

xxxxx

Before either brother had a chance to call him, they both realised they had been joined by their little faerie companion.

"What's with the book?" Dean snorted, irritably tapping his index finger against the blank page; "you told us the ending of the book would be written when the story ended. We went on the quest, saved the girl and did everything we needed to do, but the freakin' book's still not finished," he looked up at the little faerie who hovered patiently between them; "why doesn't the story have an ending?"

"Because it isn't over yet", the Not-Bobby replied as if it was blindingly obvious.

He was met with twin exclamations of confusion. "Huh?"

"It's a faerie tale," Not-Bobby explained over an exasperated sigh; "how do all faerie tales end?"

The Winchesters turned to each other with a shrug and the room fell silent as their minds worked over the question.

Eventually it was Sam that spoke.

"Happily ever after?" he offered meekly. "All faerie tales end with the good guys living happily ever after."

Not-Bobby nodded enthusiastically, a wide grin splitting his tiny bearded face; "yep, the story's not complete until everyone lives happily ever after!"

He was greeted by a duo of blank looks, and tried again.

"The story ends," he began, gesturing to Dean; "with you and the princess and all your nearest and dearest living happily ever after." He frowned in response to Dean's blank face; "In all the best faerie tales, Prince Charming marries the beautiful princess at the end and they live happily ever after; have you ever heard of a faerie tale where the hero just dumps the princess at the palace gates and hotfoots it out of town?"

"Jeez," he added; "what kind of life have you two had when you didn't even consider 'happily ever after' as an outcome to all this?"

Dean's eyes grew even wider as if that were even possible as his head swivelled from Sam's slack-jawed gape to Not-Bobby's irritatingly sympathetic smile. His mouth moved and it seemed like an age before any sound came out. "You're not serious?"

The little faerie shrugged his tiny butterfly wings; "that's your reward son," he explained quietly; "King Ulrich is going to give you a royal title and offer you his daughter's hand in marriage."

Dean leapt up off the cot.

"NO! How the hell can I marry the princess?"

Not-Bobby gasped in horror; "what? don't you like her?"

"What?" Dean snorted, as panic rose within him; "no, she's pretty and hot and nice and, of course I friggin' like her but what about Sam? We've got a goddamn life back in our world on the other side of that doorway."

Sam closed his eyes and tried manfully to ignore Dean's boxer-clad ass waving in his face as the elder Winchester grabbed his breeches from the back of a chair and began to furiously wriggle into them, hopping round the room as his rant continued.

"You … can … take … us back … right friggin' now … and show us … where … that freakin' … shed …"

In his haste to dress he put both legs down the same hole and faceplanted untidily across the floor.

Not-Bobby rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Sam," he sighed; "I'm gonna talk to you because it's the only way I'll get any sense."

Sam nodded blankly, still trying to formulate some coherent words in his head that would suit the current situation.

"Firstly," Not-Bobby began; "there's no point in me taking you to the doorway because it won't open until the story is complete. And that means the 'happily ever after' bit." He paused briefly, hoping for some kind of positive reaction, frowning when he was met with two pairs of wide, vaguely panicked eyes.

"Secondly," he sighed before continuing; "Sam; yes, you may end up being friggin' Prince Charmless', squire, but as squire to a member of the royal household, the King will make sure you're well looked after, with a title and wealth of your own, and thirdly," he gasped, gesturing toward Dean; "is it really so bad kid? Being married to a beautiful woman who loves you, going off on heroic knightly adventures and living in wealth and luxury, adored and feted as heroes by an entire kingdom?"

"That's all well and good, snapped Dean, dragging himself upright around his misaligned breeches; "but told you, we have our own lives back home."

He paused for a moment; "okay, they're not much as lives go, granted, but they're our lives all the same."

Sam nodded mutely in agreement with his brother.

Not-Bobby took a deep breath, and alighted on a corner of Sam's cot. "All those faerie tales that you read in your world," he began; "Peter Pan, the Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe, Jack and the Beanstalk, Alice in Wonderland … the main character goes to these faerie land places and stays there for days or weeks or years even, and when they return to the human world …"

"… it's like they've never been away," Sam finished the sentence for him.

The little faerie nodded eagerly; "and d'y know why that is?"

Sam blinked, and turned to Dean with a shrug.

"Those books," Not-Bobby explained patiently; "they're not all based entirely in fiction." He paused as he looked up at the two figures beside him whose wide open mouths had joined their wide open eyes.

"Time works differently here in these faerie realms. You two could live here for years, for an entire lifetime, and the minute you stepped back through that portal to your world; barely a second would have passed on the other side."

"The same magic that created that storybook," he explained, pointing to the book in Sam's hands; "will open the portal when the time is right, and then it's up to you when – or if – you step back through it."

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose and drew in a long breath; "so you're telling us we could live a life of perfect apple pie luxury here, and then step back through that portal fifty years down the line when we're a pair of decrepid old relics and – bam! We're back as we were the minute we walked through it?"

"Got it in one," Not-Bobby grinned, folding his arms in satisfaction that he seemed to had got through to at least one of the Winchesters.

xxxxx

A heavy silence fell across the room, until eventually Dean spoke up.

"How do we know you're not just telling us what you want us to believe?"

Not-Bobby's eyes narrowed dangerously; "son," he growled; "your uncle Bobby, has he ever lied to you?"

"No," snapped Dean.

"Has he ever mislead you or screwed you over?"

"No, never," Dean shook his head firmly.

"Do you trust him?"

"Yes," the words came in stereo without hesitation. "There's not a soul on earth we'd trust before Bobby;" Sam added; "he'd die before he'd lie to us."

"Right;" the little faerie folded his arms and hovered expectantly in the air between the two bemused faces.

It was Sam who broke the silence; "you've taken Bobby's personality."

"Yep, keep going …"

"Bobby would never lie to us," Dean continued; "so … you'd never lie to us."

Not-Bobby dipped his head in a solemn nod.

Dean glanced between Sam and the little faerie, clearing his throat quietly before speaking.

"I believe you," he murmured.

After a long pause, Sam pulled in a deep breath and nodded silently behind him.

"Happily ever after it is," Dean announced with a nervous smile.

"About friggin' time ya pair of idjits," Not-Bobby snorted.

xxxxx

"What about Beauty?" Dean asked suddenly.

"She's a faerie horse," Not-Bobby replied; "she'll be around as long as you are. When you head back through that doorway, whenever it may be, she turns back into a cow."

"Well, I can't do that to my girl," Dean smiled hesitantly; "gotta treat her as well as my other girl who's waiting for me back home."

Sam let out a nervous chuckle; "damnit, this idea is gonna take some getting used to."

"Well, you'd better hurry up and get used to it;" Not-Bobby snorted; "I've gotta get you pair of yahoos looking fit for a Royal Wedding, and the ceremony's in three friggin' hours."

xxxxx

The wedding of the beautiful princess Gwendoline to the handsome Sir Dean, Knight of Winchester was the most lavish celebration that Impalia had ever seen.

The grieving masses had flocked back to their blessed kingdom, and the pulse of life began, once again, to beat furiously throughout the realm. The cheering crowds thronged Impalia's sun-kissed streets on the sultry midsummer afternoon as the mighty knight rode through the town from the royal palace where he and his squire had been billeted overnight, his armour gleaming like burnished silver over a velvet gambeson as crimson as the blood that flowed so courageously through his veins. His magnificent black steed tossed her head haughtily as she strode elegantly through the confetti of rose petals that rained down over them, covering her flowing crimson caparison like the first snows of winter.

Beside them, astride his faithful mule, the knight's loyal squire, resplendent in black leather jerkin over a smart white shirt and, Sam was delighted to note, not a biggin cap in sight; rode close by his side, smiling shyly to the cheering masses, but never once swerving from his sworn duty to protect his master.

As they approached the magnificent golden towers of the castle where the ceremony was about to take place, they glanced up to see two huge and familiar figures standing hand-in-hand and looking down on them with nothing but warmth and love.

"Thank you," the giantess crouched and whispered to Sam, blowing him a kiss as they passed, and he smiled, knowing that Grimwald's death had given her back not only her husband but her voice too.

xxxxx

Inside the castle's great hall, the noble knight was crowned a royal prince of Impalia as befits the husband of its beautiful princess, a vision of alluring loveliness in ivory brocade and gold silk. His loyal squire was not forgotten in the proceedings and was gifted with his master's former title; knight of Winchester as recognition for his courage and fealty.

As Sam stepped back to return to his seat, a pair of warm brown eyes caught his, and the face that smiled at him from under a loose plait of fiery red hair was achingly pretty. He recognised her as the princess' lady in waiting, and couldn't help the awkward dimpled smile that split his face as she reached out and gave his arm a reassuring pat.

The exchange didn't go unnoticed by the royal couple, and an unspoken thought passed between them; there would be another wedding in Impalia in the not too distant future if they had any say in the matter.

Dean caught a glimpse of Not-Bobby, hovering beside him, slyly wiping away a tear. He smiled inwardly and chose not to say anything.

Well, not today at least.

xxxxx

And so Impalia rejoiced in good wishes and thoughts of love for the handsome knight and his loyal squire who had reunited a grieving king with his heirs and the beautiful couple who gave the kingdom so much hope for the future.

Her population, both human and faerie, danced with joy in the streets, while her musicians played until their fingers bled.

Beer was drunk, songs were sung, and laughter rang throughout the realm.

Dean spent half an hour convincing a sulking Beauty that she was still his best girl.

The mule ate the bride's bouquet

And everyone did, indeed, live happily ever after.

xxxxx

end


End file.
